The Slip
by something someone said
Summary: When Baalberith chooses a new candidate, Sytry has two options: he can either try to regain his uncle's favor, or fight against him to take his throne. Pairings and warnings inside.
1. Gossip with Gilles de Rais

Disclaimer: I don't own Makai Ouji.

Pairings: Heavily implied Baalberith x Sytry, slight Dantalion x William, slight Kevin x William and mentions of "canon" and one-sided pairings. Probably more to come.

Warnings: Violence, fantasy violence, implied sexuality, dialogue. Borrows details from both the anime and manga. Creative license for lesser known details/mythologies. Read in a "reader" supported browser if you can.

* * *

Sunsets were lovely, Sytry decided, a perfect gushing of colors and soft shapes, blending and swirling together in a conflagration of vibrance and light. Almost as lovely as toffy.

Hell didn't have sunsets. It was night most of the time, a foreboding, blood red moon hanging high in the just as foreboding darkness. Of course, it was day sometimes, but it was never issued in with a sunrise. Day just sort of happened, as if the collective consciousness of all the demons in Hell wanted to see something other than black and red hues for once.

He stood on one of the many bridges that connected to the school, his tin of cookies balancing precariously on the handrails. The river, too, was dyed in the vibrant colors of dusk, the ruddy pastels obscuring murky depths. He reached into the tin but was only met with the cold apathy of metal and crumbs.

"Tch."

He caught himself before he called for Leonard. How long before he was elected and could permanently return to Hell? How long before he stopped having to be confined by human rules and William's whims? He shook the idea out of his head.

The human world had its perks. Admirers, and cookies and sunsets, especially cookies. Not that Hell didn't have cookies, but the cookies here had their own peculiar taste. Not ambrosial but not mundane. Just a perfect mix of buttery softness and delicate sweetness. And, of course, here _he_ didn't...

"Sytryyy!"

The voice broke him out of his concentration. He jerked—sending the empty cookie tin into the sunset-colored waters below—and turned to see Isaac rushing towards him.

"Sytry! There you are. William was worried when you didn't show up to dinner."

"Worried? About me?"

"Well, maybe worried isn't the best word. More like, this is gonna reflect badly on _me_ if one of the underclassman isn't here. But more importantly, is there something wrong? I mean, like I was saying, you missed dinner."

Isaac's face was red and puffy, like he had been running for more than he probably did on most days. He reminded Sytry of those small imp-like demons always skittering around in the larger cities in Hell. They were low-leveled, useless things but they had a certain rotund cuteness to them. He had even considered keeping one as a pet, once.

Sytry smiled, a curt, sweet smile. "Nothing's wrong. I simply forgot. You humans live such structured lives, afterall." He hadn't meant to take that particular jab at humanity, it had simply slipped. A lot of things had been slipping recently.

"I managed to save you a dinner roll or two if you were still hungry." Isaac offered him the bread.

Humans were all very strange, Sytry thought. They thought a demon would starve to death if he didn't have two dinner rolls before bed.

"How thoughtful of you."

He took the bread and bit into it. His mouth instantly went dry, the utter tastelessness sucking out the taste of cookies and sugar and goodness. He swallowed politely and tucked the rest of the biscuits away, intent on burning them when Isaac wasn't looking.

"I'll be heading back now."

He spared one last thought to the cookie tin, now basking in the murk at the bottom of the river, and headed to his dormitory. Surely, there were better things to think about than sunsets and cookie tins and dinner rolls for the future interment ruler of Hell.

* * *

Sytry's bed was a thin mattress on a wire frame pushed up against the window. It's only redeeming attribute was that it housed a menagerie of cookie tins and sweets underneath it.

In Hell, he didn't have a bed, let alone a bed_room_. His long slumbers were conducted in a vault underground. Of course, there were many beds in the castle—luxurious ones of the most exquisite silks with pillows stuffed with the finest down—but those beds weren't used for sleeping and none of them were his own.

Isaac had followed him to his room and Sytry marveled at the shorter boy's complete inability to be shrugged off. More than that, the complete inability to take even the slightest of hints. Perhaps that was why he was still in the lower fifth year.

For now, the boy idled at his side, just close enough for discomfort, but not quite close enough for Sytry to have any good reason to dismiss him.

"What do demons dream of?" Isaac asked. "Ooh, lemme guess: skulls and blood and bones and—"

"What do humans dream of?" Was Sytry's level retort.

He wasn't expecting a reply, but Isaac launched into one anyway. "Well, just last week I had a dream about standing in a wasteland of skulls. The ground itself was bloody and the—"

"How morbid." Sytry plopped down on the bed. He could feel the wiry frame dig into his back, _sharp claws that had shorn and rent and torn and left only bloody, gaping holes. _

"—bones had rotting flesh on them. It was very freaky, but it was kinda cool too. But anyway, what do demons dream about? What do _you_ dream about?"

Isaac's eyes bore into him, hopelessly big and annoyingly wide. For a second, it was more uncomfortable for Sytry than metal wires.

"Sugar plums and fairies and gumdrops." His tone was even as he rolled on his side and hid his face in the pillow.

"How boring." He heard Isaac sigh. "Maybe I should ask Dantalion."

"Don't ask him, that stupid nephilim has no brain to dream with."

"Ah, maybe you're right." Sytry could imagine Isaac putting a finger to his cheek and scratching it a little. "Actually, I'd be a little afraid to ask him. I mean, what do you think a guy like that would answer with. He'd probably tell me lies anyway."

"He _is_ a demon, after all."

Sytry waited for the tell-tale sound of foot steps that accompanied Isaac's leaving, but was disappointed by the silence. Even worse, he felt his mattress sink down a little further somewhere near his feet. Isaac had invited himself to sit down on his bed.

"I mean, I've always dreamed of stuff like this", Isaac continued, "summoning demons and the supernatural. Now that's it's finally happening all around me, I can't help but just stare and do nothing. I know you're all here for William and not me, but well... I just, I have so many questions."

Sytry curled up, determined to secure a space on the bed of his own. He did not understand human curiosity and incessant questions very well. He also did not understand why Isaac was bothering the former and the latter.

"But it's strange. I usually don't think of you guys as demons. To me you're just my classmates, until you're shooting beams of light from thin air. But most of the time I just think of you as humans."

Sytry internally gagged. Being compared to a human was the lowest form of insult that a demon could throw at another, and here he was, a candidate to rule Hell, being unintentionally insulted by a clueless mortal.

"Shall I peel your flesh off, piece by tender piece, to convince you of how un-human I really am?" Sytry muttered, his lips nearly touching his knees.

"Uh, please don't, unless I get to live after it. I've always wondered how I'd look with all my skin taken off."

"Don't worry. I'm not going to do it anyway. It would be too messy and William would hate me for it."

Isaac laughed. "He'd probably confiscate all your cookies and keep a close watch on your fan club to see that you didn't get anymore."

"Now that would be true Hell." Sytry stretched. Speaking of Hell, he hadn't heard any news recently. Perhaps nothing was going on, yet such long lulls were incredibly rare for him.

He kicked Isaac with his shin.

"Why are you on my bed? You have your own, don't you? And for that matter, what do you want with me in the first place?"

"I thought we were becoming friends, is all." It was a shy reply, the sort of reply Sytry used when he was trying to convert one more member into his fanclub. Such a tone coming from Isaac, it just felt wrong, more than wrong, it felt _truthful_.

"I regret to inform you that I don't make friends." He flung around, so fast that Isaac nearly jumped off the bed in confusion.

"Now off. I might not tear your flesh off, but I can do other things that are equally as unpleasant and less messy."

"Yikes!" Isaac backed off. Sytry waited for Isaac's final retreat to his own room, but the boy just stood there, staring slightly passed him, his mouth hanging open. Sytry turned to follow his gaze.

"Oh, this is a piece of sensaaaaaational gossip!" Gilles de Rais had materialized on the other side of his window.

"What's going on?" Sytry rose, unlocking the window and letting Rais in.

"Oh, I shouldn't, I shouldn't ruin it." Rais bowed his legs and held his hands to his cheeks. It was the very imitation of the Grand Duchesses' daughter whenever she saw Dantalion, all blushes and fidgets and frenzies.

Sytry stood to face him. "Does my uncle want something?"

At this, Rais smile faltered, descending into a smirk, and his hands retreated to his hips. A dark shadow ran across his eyes. "Well, that's the thing. He won't be wanting anything from _you_ anymore."

"What are you talking about?" Sytry felt his heart beat faster. A million thoughts rushing through his head, all of them horrible.

"You've been replaced, my dear Sytry" declared under rampant giggles. "You've been replaced!"

* * *

Gilles de Rais' laughter still clung to him as Sytry passed the colonnade to his uncle's castle. His heels smacked against the marble floor, a loud, angry sound that announced both his presence and his mood.

Leonard stood at the door, a look of sympathy vaguely perceptible on his wethered face.

"Lord Sytry?"

"Where's my uncle?" It was quick and sharp and rigid.

"In the throne room." The sheep bowed, unperturbed, guessing the gravity of the situation.

Sytry rushed to the the room, not caring how much of a commotion he

His uncle sat on his throne, Eligos curled around him. She was tittering some nonsense in his ear.

For Sytry, the scene brought back memories from his previous conversation with Rais.

"Replaced?" He had stood there, not quite believing.

"Oh yes. Lord Baalberith has announced his new candidate, Eligos. He stole her away from Beelzebuth, no doubt! It caused quite the scandal. Now, now. I really must know what you did to piss him off so much."

Sytry glared at him, and Gilles, with the slightest of movements, backed away. "What else do you know?"

"Unfortunately, only that the other three kings have already been informed of the decision. Lord Baalberith's move has stunned all of them, which may give our faction an edge."

Sytry was finding it hard to stand, his vision darkening ever so slightly. He felt like crushing something. Anything. The next thing that moved.

"Sytry?" He had forgotten that Isaac was still in the room. Slowly, like a metal box sinking in water, his anger subsided.

"I have to speak with him," he said before crafting the magic circle and going down to Hell.

* * *

His uncle had yet to notice him, whispering something too quiet to hear (the tone he had only ever used with him) to Eligos. She giggled and jittered, her coquettish laughter turning Sytry's stomach.

"Uncle."

The pair finally turned towards him.

"So you've heard," Baalberith faced him, smiling pleasantly. He was in an exceptionally good mood. Too good a mood. "Have you come to pay homage to the new future ruler of Hell?"

"Why?" Sytry whispered. He doubted his uncle could hear him from all the way across the room, his voice weak and breaking.

"Why? But why not? Eligos has always been capable. She has carried out her duties with efficiency and precision. Now, doesn't she deserve to rule Hell? That's why I couldn't stand to see her in Camio's shadow any longer. Someone like her deserves to be the center of attention. Now, what have _you_ done recently other than play with the Elector in the human world?"

"I did it on your orders."

"It's disgusting, how much you fawn over him." Now, this was the uncle he knew, that low guttural voice ever so perceptive. Always knowing so much more than Sytry himself. "Tell me, Sytry, would a good leader of Hell be at the beck and call of a human being?"

"No, of course not. I'm simply securing his vote."

"And what a terrible job you've done so far. Between Camio and Astaroth's nephilim, you're the least likely to get it. The Elector admires Camio and has grown fond of Dantalion, but you... He sees you as nothing more than a subordinate—"

"He sees me as _more_ than that."

"—something that can be ordered at his whim—"

"William doesn't think that!"

"—to do any task, no matter how menial or petty." Baalberith's eyes had glazed over. All traces of his former good humor had vanished. "Oh yes. I know how you are in the human world. Always at the mercy of others. That priest practically killed you and don't make me begin on those human children that crowd around you, always getting your little favors in exchange for repulsive human food. You are a disgrace to your lineage!"

"No, you're..." Sytry felt his knees grow weak and he gave in. The feel of the floor, the cold, unyielding floor was familiar to him. How many times had he kneeled on it? Laid on it? Felt its icy impenetrability grind against his spine?

"Ah, now that's a good pose for you, Sytry. Pledge your loyalty to me and the future ruler of Hell. Submit to me and me alone."

"Never." He barely whispered it.

"What?"

"I am the future ruler of Hell, not her!" He faced his uncle and hoped his eyes showed whatever remnants of pride he had left.

Baalberith chuckled and slouched, putting his forearms on his knees and interlocking his fingers together. "You would like it if I came over there, wouldn't you, Sytry? You would like it if I held you down and told you how naughty you're being."

Meanwhile, Eligos silently observed, seated on the arm of the chair, absent-mindeldly twirling her hair in her fingers. Her look was one of pure detachment. The first rule of Hell: don't intrude on others' affairs.

"I can see it," Baalberith continued. "How much you must want me to hold you. It's been so long, especially for you. I bet your body's screaming for it."

Sytry remained silent, looking straight ahead.

"Pledge your loyalty and I'll come over there, Sytry. I'll hold you and make you forget about all this."

"No." Sytry kept his voice even.

"I'll give you one last chance." His uncle slouched further, his eyes boring into him. "Pledge or I will not be merciful."

"You never were," Sytry spat, poison dripping from his lips. "I refuse."

Baalberith leaned back, his hat falling over his eyes. "Too bad," his rough and rasping voice filled the room and Sytry's ears. It crawled under his skin and into his bones. "I was growing tired of this doll, but I thought it still had its merits. I guess I was mistaken." He turned to Eligos. "Get it out of here. I grow bored just looking at it."

Her eyes shined, dangerous and sharp diamond patterns. "With pleasure." She jumped from the throne in an elegant arc and made her way straight for Sytry, sending out a beam that hit him faster than he was expecting. He hit the floor, breathing hard.

Another beam came for him just seconds after he opened his eyes, and he rolled over just in time to see it make a sharp impact into the floor.

"Uncle! Stop this!" Sytry called.

The dust from the fight was obscuring the room. His uncle was only an outline now.

"How impudent! Trash like you addressing my master!" Eligos was quick. She lunged at Sytry and barely missed as he finally rose to his feet.

"Uncle!" he called again, only narrowly missing another jab. He sparred with her for a few moments, being sure to block or avoid whatever she threw at him. But she was good, always knowing when to pull back and when to dig in.

Sytry knew that he had to run towards the throne. Then he could sort out whatever mess his uncle had created. There was still hope.

He waited for her to come at him again and, when she did, he dodged the blow at the last second, sending her crashing into a wall. Now was his chance. He made a dash for the end of the room, avoiding the debris their battle had made. His pace quickened when he saw the throne—_the_ throne—_just_ the throne. His uncle wasn't there.

Sytry stopped dead in his tracks. Baalberith hadn't stayed to watch. As if the outcome did not concern him. As if he already knew how it would end.

_I grow bored just looking at it. _

Sytry knew she was coming, but he didn't turn around. A crushing force had shackled him to the floor. It perforated his mind, left only holes—bloody, gaping holes—where his hope should have been.

Sytry knew she was behind him, but he didn't turn to face her. How many years, centuries, had he stood in this same, exact place? How many times had his uncle whispered to him, his gloved hand cupping his cheek, that he was his favorite, _the_ _favorite, _his favorite doll? How long had it been since he had fallen here, because of him—_because of him._

He knew what she would do next, and he accepted it. His last thought, before he hit the cold, unyielding floor, was that he could no longer remember the years, the times, how long it had been, and how long it had been since he had seen _her _face.

_TBC...?_


	2. Detention with Dantalion

Lamia had lost interest in her toys a very long time ago. Of course she had, she _was_ a young lady after all. She was the future wife of Dantalion and she just couldn't bear for him to view her as a child anymore. But, truth be told, Hell was awfully boring sometimes. It was especially boring now that Dantalion was in the human world most of the time. And so she had found the old chest that she had hid in the recesses of a closet somewhere and unearthed some of her favorite dolls.

The one she was playing with now looked like Dantalion, handsome and brave with a wonderful red cape. She made it bow to her and was just about to dance around the room with it when something caught her eye.

She could see a figure approaching from her place by the window. _That_ was odd. She hadn't heard her mother was expecting any visitors today. She squinted to see the figure more clearly. _Oh my,_ now this looked interesting. She doubted she would be bored for very much longer, so, locking the doll who liked like Dantalion away in the chest and kicking it under whatever bed or shelf it would fit, she hurried quickly to alert her mother of the imminent guest.

* * *

Astaroth had invited the sheep-butler in on false pretenses. Of course, the broken state of Baalberith's former candidate in the sheep's arms intrigued her, but more than that, it was not everyday she had a chance to obtain information from one so close to her rival.

"I take it this was Baalberith's doing." She pointed toward Sytry. My, he looked worse for wear. Much paler than he usually was, his clothing torn. Now, she was reminded of the demon's haughtiness towards her subordinates. If Dantalion was here, Astaroth thought, he would have had a good laugh and said something along the lines of _"Not so high and mighty anymore, are we, Sytry?_" Or maybe he wouldn't have. He had grown softer, spending so much time with the Elector. So much time in the human world. She was the tiniest bit jealous.

"Eligos, actually," the sheep replied. He shifted his arms. Sytry hadn't so much as moved since he'd come in, probably unconcious.

"My, I didn't know she was so strong," Astaroth commented. That wasn't exactly the truth. She had always known the demon was powerful, she just hadn't known she had the power to take on Sytry even. Now, it was starting to make sense. Baalberith was always searching for the next edge over them all and anyone stronger than Sytry would certainly do. But then Astaroth thought better of it. There had to be more to it than that. He was a sly one, after all.

"But what has this got to do with me? Why come here?" She feigned disinterest. It had always made Beelzebuth spill the especially juicy secrets.

"Lord Sytry is no longer safe in the West. I fear for his life now that Lord Baalberith has chosen Eligos. When I found him like this my only thought was to bring him here. To the South."

"And what makes you think he'll be so safe here?" She raised an eyebrow. Certainly, the sheep was smart enough to know that he and Baalberith's favorite, or rather, former favorite now, was no safer in enemy territory. _With her_.

"You know my master well, Lady Astaroth." He did not elaborate, but Astaroth thought she knew what he was getting at. Beelzebuth was still seething over Eligos betraying him and Samael, nobody ever knew what Samael was thinking. It seemed the sheep had viewed her as the lesser of three evils.

"Please, Lady Astaroth." The sheep bowed, balancing Sytry carefully in his arms. "Please take Lord Sytry under your protection."

She did feel pity for him, Baalberith's little, broken doll. This pity, this despicable human emotion, it was probably a remnant from being human.

"And what's in it for me?" Oh, she could name a hundred reasons why having a spy in Baalberith's castle would help her candidate win the election, but the situation was still very strange to her. Why abandon Sytry? Why now? Leonard was right when he had said she knew Baalberith well. There was something he was planning and Astaroth got the feeling this was only the beginning.

"I will kindly offer whatever services you require of me, but please be advised that Lord Baalberith is my master and I cannot do anything that would go against his orders." The sheep was still bowing his head.

Yes, this was exceptionally strange. Why had Baalberith let this servant run away with his nephew? Was this all some sort of trick? The questions buzzed around her head. Finally, she had to shut them out.

"I will invite him as a guest"—at this the butler looked up and smiled—"but I cannot offer him my protection. If Baalberith comes here looking for him, I _will_ hand him over without a second thought."

"Thank you, Lady Astaroth."

She called to her servants to prepare a bedroom.

"Oh, and Lamia." The girl squeaked from her spot behind the door. "Not a word of this to anyone, even Dantalion. It seems that our guest will need his privacy."

* * *

"-try!"

Sytry's eyes fluttered open. Sunlight was shining through the window, a happy yellow beam that signaled the start of the day.

"Wake up!" Sytry's eyes shot to the owner of the voice. William was standing at his bedside in his school uniform, a look of perfect annoyance etched on his face. "If I have to say it again—"

"I'm up! I'm up!" He rushed out of bed. It felt like he had slept for a long, long time. That was strange, he thought. He usually didn't sleep in the human world. Whatever the case, he hurried to put on his school uniform, or at least he tried to. He couldn't seem to get it exactly right. The ribbon was being fussy, coming undone at the slightest touch.

"Never mind the ribbon. Let's go." William called and Sytry followed. They walked down the hall and Sytry kept his eyes on William's back. It seemed like he was forgetting something. Something very important. No, maybe that wasn't it. He felt perfectly fine, as he munched on the cookies that he had taken with him... from where?, he wondered. Had he grabbed them when William wasn't looking?

William walked and walked and walked, never turning around. Sytry wondered if he was still mad. But what had he been mad about, Sytry wondered. He was certainly forceful today.

"Where are we going?" Sytry asked. He felt like they had been walking forever.

William did not answer and kept walking.

"Sytryyyy!" A voice came from behind him and he turned.

Running toward him was Isaac. His face was red and puffy, like an imp, Sytry thought. The idea caused him to lose his concentration for a moment. He dropped the box of cookies, but strangely, he didn't hear it hit the ground.

"Sytry, where are you going?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm following William." He turned around, but no one was behind him, just a long, endless hallway leading into darkness. Hadn't it been daytime?

"What is—" He looked around.

Uncle Baalberith was standing where Isaac had been. "Where are you going, Sytry?" He smiled. "You know you'll never get away."

Something clanged at his feet, a deep, ringing metallic sound. The box had finally hit the ground.

Sytry woke, tearing himself out of dreams and nightmares. The first thing he was saw was a magnificent chandelier. He was in a room with red decor and stately and handsome furnishings. He was not in the human world, he was not in his uncle's castle—_no_, of course he wouldn't be there.

"So you're awake." His head was quick to turn toward the voice. The Grand Duchess of the South, Astaroth, sat at his bedside. "Would you like some tea?"

He hesitantly nodded, a million questions swimming through his head, but he didn't have the energy to ask any of them.

"Lamia."

Her daughter came in with a tray. Sytry moved to sit up and lurched back in pain. It _hurt_. His head, his back, his bones. Everything.

"Your sheep butler brought you here." Astaroth said, as if sensing his confusion. There was no pity in her voice, only pragmatic and detached observation. He wanted to thank her for that.

"Leonard? Where is he now?"

"Most likely back in King Baalberith's domain by now."

"I see." Sytry moved again to sit up. The pain was bearable this time. He was expecting it. Regardless, he winced when his back hit the pillows. "Uncle... he... I..." His mouth went dry just thinking about it. Thankfully, Lamia had started pouring the tea, its aroma curling around the room. She offered it to him.

"Thank you." He sipped. It was a red tea, delicate and sharp with a zesty, dry finish. He wished Lamia had brought along sugar cubes, but he didn't see any.

"He's abandoned me." He finally said, setting the tea down a little. The thought swept over him: he was defenseless. He couldn't stand it. This humility, this loneliness.

"It would seem that is the case," Astaroth commented. She was radiant as always, her dark hair forming a mane around her alluring face, eyes brighter than the chandelier. _Golden _and strong.

"I need to get back there. If I could just tell him to reconsider..." He started, but his mind flashed an image of an empty throne and he stopped.

"And what?" Astaroth continued for him. "The same thing will most likely happen to you—or worse."

Sytry sighed. The pain in his body was subsiding and a new pain was lodging in him. Defeat, an astringent taste, a hopeless weight.

"What should I do then?"

Astaroth sat there for a moment, stoic and quizzical. "If you want to take your position back, you'll have to take it by force." Sytry shot a look at her.

"Fight Eligos again?"

She shook her head. "Not Eligos."

He turned from her, looked up at the chandelier. Not Eligos but Baalberith. "But I couldn't..."

"You have armies, Sytry! You would be able to take on Baalberith, with aid of course." You could usurp him, even, Astaroth thought. Now is the perfect opportunity. She could picture it: Baalberith's armies crushed, his throne taken. It would be a severe blow to the Anti-Nephilim faction, to Anti-Nephilim sentiment. She allowed herself to smile. Old Baalberith defeated by his little nephew and the nephilim. She would personally relish the look on his face.

"Is that aid you're suggesting your own?" Sytry's voice brought her back. He looked better now; his cheeks a little more than pale, his eyes a little more sharp. She had never understood his appeal. Skinny, wan and way too proud. She remembered how Baalberith had insulted her by remarking on Beelzebuth's _taste_. Beelzebuth's taste? What of _his_ taste? Oh yes, she had heard the rumors. She knew exactly what kind of _taste_ Baalberith had.

"An enemy of an enemy is a friend, after all." Her eyes shined, warm and precious metal. If Sytry wasn't attractive to her, his armies certainly were. Hordes of demons at the beck and call of their master. Was Sytry a good commander? She hadn't heard much on his prowess on the battlefield. It mattered little, however, she would be the one leading the assault after all.

Sytry returned to his tea. The flavor was mellowing out. He recognized it now. Pomegranate. "I'll have to think about it." He took another sip. It was growing bitter.

"Of course, you're in no position to do anything now." She rose. "Rest, rest as much as you can. And then we'll talk."

Yes, rest, that sounded good. He set the tea aside as Astaroth and Lamia left. The room fell quiet with the last clinking of the tea cup.

Sytry didn't feel like sleeping. He didn't feel like having nightmares again. He didn't feel like gathering his armies and taking on his uncle.

_He's abandoned me... _

Saying it to Astaroth hadn't hit him as hard as it did now. His chest hurt, his body ached. And it wasn't merely the fact that he had been abandoned, thrown away, it was that his uncle didn't care anymore.

Something wet hit his hand. The tea? But he had placed it on the side.

No, these were...

_These_ were...

Sytry's hands clenched the sheets. How could he? How _could_ he? He threw off the blanket, he clambered off the bed, knocking over the tea.

It crashed to the ground in a splendid, dazzling red. Red carpet, red walls, red tea.

_He's abandoned _me...

His movements had signaled the pain to return and he sunk down to his knees. Nevermind it, he told himself, it will be gone soon. He clawed his way to his feet and trekked to the other side of the room, to where a floor length mirror stood.

So this was the noble demon, Sytry, he thought acridly. The reflection did not look like someone that could take on his uncle's armies. Instead, it looked defeated and wasted, torn from the only home it had known.

He winced at the pain coming from his back.

Eligos. His eyes sharpened at the name. He could imagine her, her tight body and zealous eyes, completely wrapped in his uncle's scent. _How does it taste, Eligos? _ He wanted to ask her. _How do you like it? Wouldn't you know, you'll never get it out of your mouth? _

* * *

William's day had not been getting off to a good start. First, he had scolded Dantalion for telling lewd stories to Isaac, then, he hadn't had time to study for his Latin test and, finally, Sytry had been missing since last night. He stalked down the halls, intent on making sure he could circumvent any other problems before they escalated.

"Are you sure the last time you saw him was in his room?"

"Positive!" Isaac proclaimed, following his long strides. "Although, he did make one of those magic transportation circle things."

"Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?"

"I was sure you wouldn't believe me. You _are_ a realist after all."

"No, this is completely different," William scolded him. Sure maybe he wouldn't have believed Isaac and a year ago or so, but now that Hell had shown up on his doorstep, he could allow for a few slips in the logic. He'd have to find a way to study magic transportation circles somehow. Surely, there was some theory out there that explained going through dimensions. But, for now, back to Isaac. "And _you_ asked me if I wanted to hear my horoscope just this morning!"

Isaac held up the morning edition of the paper. "Leo will forge new alliances today, all of Scorpio's plans will follow through and Virgo, oh, it's not looking so good for Virgo."

William could feel a headache coming on. "I don't care about that. Now, if you see Sytry tell him to come see me immediately. I'll be studying for that Latin exam."

"Latin exam?"

"Yes, we have a Latin exam today."

"Oh, I forgot about that! Looks like it's not looking so good for me either." William made a mental note to confiscate the horoscope section of all of Isaac's newspapers. No, scratch that, confiscate all of Isaac's newspapers in general. Perhaps then the boy would study instead of filling his head with useless nonsense.

It was only after taking his Latin exam later that day that William found time to relax. In his room, he lounged on the chair by his desk and shut his eyes, hoping that his headache would subside. It would be of no use to anyone if the future prime minister fell victim to frequent headaches. Or did that come with the job? Either way, he'd have to think of a remedy for it. Perhaps counting sheep? No, that was something mothers told their little children to do when they tucked them into bed. He'd have to find if there was any evidence of that actually working. Not that he was planning on having kids any time soon, if ever.

Suddenly, he heard a knock at his door.

"Enter!"

"You wanted to see me?" Sytry stood in his doorway.

William stood up, shooting him a sharp look. "Where have you been?" He regretted asking immediately after he said. Of course, he'd say some fantastical thing about fighting demons and eating twelve-tier cakes.

Sytry's mouth opened to answer but he cut him off, "It doesn't matter. You've been out of school without leave for almost an entire day, not to mention last night."

"My apologies." He looked away.

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" William crossed his arms.

"It won't happen again."

"Let's hope not." William paced the room. At least Sytry took punishment better than Dantalion, what, with all the shouting and trying to escape through the second story window. But there was also something a little off about scolding him, as if he was kicking a dog. William disliked the image, so he expunged it from his head. Speaking of his head, his headache was coming back with a greater force than before. He tried to think of the best way of ensuring it wouldn't happen again, both his headache and Sytry's absence.

"Detention," he prescribed. "You'll be scrubbing the dormitory's floors, upstairs and down."

Sytry was still looking away, his thoughts clearly in a different place.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, as you wish." Still looking away.

"You can start right now."

Sytry simply nodded.

"Dismissed!" Sytry finally looked at him, blinked and left.

"And don't make me catch you handing off your duties to your fan club. I'll be checking!" He called after him, poking his head out of the doorway. Sytry stopped, nodded, and kept walking without turning back.

William went back to his seat, completely satisfied on how he had handled the situation. No one was exempt from school rules, whether they were the princess of the school or a viscount of Hell. Still, it was odd. Sytry wasn't normally so gloomy. William massaged his temples. This headache was certainly a monster, one with eight arms and in every single on of them a hammer. He'd have to go through his list of solutions. _One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four sheep and Baphomet's cakes._

* * *

The water sloshed in Sytry's pail as he brought it down the stairs. He had returned to the school, to the human world and detention duty on Astartoh's advice.

"Do you think your life is in danger?" Astaroth had asked him. She had brought him new clothes and something to eat. He had put on the clothes and left the food on the table.

He couldn't find an answer for her, however. _Yes_ seemed too paranoid, _no_ too naïve.

"Better to not be out in the open," Astaroth warned, as if reading his mind. "The human world is probably the best place you can be right now."

"The human world?" Sytry though of the place but couldn't help but picture William, Isaac, Dantalion, and Camio. He couldn't figure out why he was thinking of them, especially since half of them didn't even _belong_ to the human world. Whatever the case, those four were a comforting thought among the many other uneasy ones.

"And have you made your decision, Styry?" Astaroth could not wait.

He turned to her. His usual coyness was gone, replaced by a cold firmness.

"Yes."

* * *

He dipped the brush in the water, ice freezing his hand. The bristles of the brush scraped against the floorboards and he concentrated on making a rhythmic sound against the wood.

_"He sees you as nothing more than a subordinate__,__ something that can be ordered to do his whims no matter how menial or petty."_

He scrubbed harder, making the brush bleed water, scratch against the floorboards, his hand cramping in protest.

"You'll just wear away the finish like that." _That_ voice. His head shot up.

Dantalion stood before him, a brush in one hand and a bucket in the other. He was looking exceptionally pleasant today, his hair slicked back, a stupidly large grin on his face. "Not to mention, the skin on your hand."

"Tch," Sytry returned to scrubbing. "_You_ would know."

Dantalion dropped his bucket right in front of him and got on his hands and knees. "You see," he dumped the brush in the water and placed it on the floor, "you need to be gentle but firm." He moved the brush with a steady hand, little bubbles foaming around the edges. "Like how you would treat a woman."

"Is that what you're here for?" He kept his voice haughty, surprising himself how convincing it was. "Got caught telling your perverted fantasies to Isaac?"

Dantalion gaped at him, dumbstruck. "How did you know?"

"Unlike _you_ I use my head for more than passing balls around." Sytry said, his voice even, cutting above the sound of scrubbing.

Dantalion worked the brush with hardened ease. "To what do I owe your hospitable mood? Have you run out of your favorite sweets?"

"I haven't the slightest clue. I haven't eaten any sweets today." His voice was wispy, frank.

Dantalion stopped. "Has home frozen over?"

"Don't be silly." Sytry hunched over. He was determined to finish this section so that he could move in the opposite direction of the nephilim. He scrubbed, trying to put his back into it.

Still, he liked the familiar jabs of their conversation, the camaraderie of their antagonism. He was a noble, a prince, a candidate for king once again, if only in the moments he had derided Dantalion. Perhaps nephilim did have their purposes, their uses. Perhaps he didn't dislike talking to Dantalion at all. From the looks of it, Astaroth hadn't told the other demon a word of his disgrace, which meant he'd be able to enjoy Dantalion's disparaging remarks for at least a little longer. But, the fact remained that nobody had informed Dantalion on the matter. Now, that was something that Sytry _did_ dislike.

"Speaking of home, what have you heard recently?" He asked it in the most unassuming tone he could muster, a ploy to gather information.

"Hmm? Now that you mention it, Lady Astaroth hasn't sent me any news lately. Mamon and Amon must be lazing around. Has your—"

"I've heard nothing either." He was quick to interrupt. "Don't you think it's strange?"

"Whatever. Doesn't concern me." Sytry sighed. He was thankful for Dantalion's stupidity and complete disregard for the world he would potentially rule. "The quieter, the better. No news is good news. And some other third trite phrase." Dantalion picked up his bucket and moved a few floorboards away. The water sloshed as Dantalion plunged the brush into it, falling over the sides of the bucket and onto the floor.

So this was one of the candidates to rule Hell. Dantalion certainly made a striking figure, hunched over the floor, furiously rubbing away at the dirt tracked in by grubby human children. He couldn't figure what Astaroth, or anyone for that matter, saw in him. Oh he was strong, but as for his ability to rule, to think—he hadn't even thought to keep his voice down when telling his obscene stories.

"So, had an enjoyable day skipping class?" Dantalion did not look up. His voice had become the slightest hint more serious.

"It's none of your concern."

"So defensive. It was just a question."_ Brush, brush, brush, splash._

"And the answer has nothing to do with you."

Dantalion finally looked up on him with a face that screamed nosiness. "And now I have to know how your day was."

"You're worse than Gilles de Rais!"

"Did someone say my name?" Of course, someone would materialize from between Dantalion's legs. Of course, it would be one of the last people Sytry wanted to see. He would never say that name again. That name was _cursed_.

"Rais? What now?" Dantalion had turned around, moving his open legs out of eyesight, and Sytry caught the slight tinge of embarrassment on his cheeks.

Meanwhile, Gilles de Rais towered over them both, standing on the floor they had just cleaned. His expression was dreadfully amused.

"Ah, so this is how our future interim leader and our _former_ future interim leader spend their evenings." He glanced down at them both, his smile a malignant curve. "Of course, _I_ always spend my evenings on my knees."

"Former?" Dantalion echoed. Sytry felt himself gasp.

"Shut up, Rais!" He yelled from his position on the floor.

"Ah, now that's a good pose for you, Sytry." Rais directed his attention at him. "I'd thought a fallen angel would have nowhere else to fall, but you've certainly proved me wrong."

"Shut _up_, Rais!" This time he didn't yell, the plosive bitterly vibrating on his lips.

Rais bent down, so that he was just inches from Sytry's face. "You know, I never asked because of Lord Baalberith, but I've always been curious: how good _are_ you? Seeing as you've kept him busy for such a long time, your abilities must be exceptional. Mind if I get a peak?" He grabbed Sytry's ribbon. "You know, you're just my type." He loosened the ribbon, pulled it off completely and looked at the pale and exposed collarbone. "_Broken_."

Gilles de Rais' head hit the ground faster than Dantalion could blink. He heard it crack, a sickening, hideous noise that even he could barely stand. In another split second, Sytry was on him, mauling at his face, nails clawing whatever they could find.

"No! Stop!" Rais screamed and Dantalion was surprised he was still sentient after a fall like that.

"Stop! I beg of you!"

Dantalion wasn't sure how to react. He rose and stood there, watching as Sytry savagely beat the other. Questions ran through his head. He needed answers and it galled him that he hadn't been informed of what was very obviously going on in Hell.

_I've heard nothing either. _He heard Sytry's voice again play in his head. Such a liar. Such a splendid, little liar. And here Dantalion thought they were finally becoming...

What were they becoming?

The demon on top of Rais was definitely not something Dantalion wanted to become anything with.

"Sytry! Stop!" That was not Rais' voice.

Dantalion looked over. William stood at the top of the stairs, anger and annoyance perniciously skewing his features.

Sytry, meanwhile, had been forced off of Rais and now slumped against the wall. There was blood on his face, coming down his head and dripping from his mouth. Dantalion spared a curious look at Rais and then regretted it. Flesh hung in ways it shouldn't have and, before Rais covered his face, Dantalion caught a glimpse of fluid oozing from his eyes.

"I'll make you pay for this, you little bitch!" Rais roared as he picked himself off of the floor. There was a flash of light and then he was gone. All was quiet for a second, just Sytry's breathing and William's steps as he descended the stairs.

Dantalion watched as William tracked through the blood and knelt before Sytry.

"Is something wrong?" William's tone of voice shocked Dantalion. He had been to the point of rage only moments before, but this voice now, it was soft, it was benevolent, tender even. Like Solomon's.

"Please, Sytry, look at me." He started to move the bangs from Sytry's face, but his hand was quickly batted away.

"Sytry," William held his wrist instead. "I'm not commanding you, I'm asking you. Please look at me." The two seemed frozen for a moment and Dantalion watched, not sure how to feel. He felt like he was peering into a secret moment, a moment that only belonged to Sytry and William. It was strange, how much he wanted to be in Sytry's position and not be there all at the same time.

Finally, Sytry opened his eyes. Blue irises shined from their places encrusted in red.

"Now, could you tell me what's wrong?" William asked, gently still.

"I'm sorry, William." Sytry's voice trembled. "I can't tell you right now."

William sighed. "Alright then." He rose, letting go of Sytry. "Why don't you wash up then?" He fumbled in his coat pocket. "Take this key, it leads to my bedroom. You'll find a basin in there where you can wash in peace."

Sytry rose slowly, all the while looking like he could tip over at any moment. Hesitantly, he took the key and without another look, hurried up the stairs. Then, to Dantalion's surprise, William dropped to his knees, took a brush and started scrubbing away the blood.

"Hey, aren't you going to help?" It was not the same soft tone, but it was still not one he was expecting from William.

"It's just," Dantalion uttered, dropping to his knees and resuming his cleaning. "I'm not used to seeing you this way."

William scrubbed furiously at his last words. "You'd think me, the prefect of this dorm, would be caught dead with this much blood on the floor? They'd think I'd let a murder happen! My perfect future would be ruined!" Now this was the William he knew.

Dantalion smiled. He didn't know all the answers, but he was glad some things hadn't changed.

* * *

_Extra_

The bandages only barely clung to his face as Gilles de Rays entered the throne room.

"To what do we owe this newest fashion trend?" The King of the West asked, his voice sardonic and vapid.

"Your nephew did this to me," Gilles de Rais' anger filled the room, bouncing off the unforgiving shadows. "That son of a bitch!"

"Be careful who you insult, Gilles de Rais," Baalberith raised his hand. "That woman is _still_ my sister."

"My apologies, my lord." Rais' anger subsided almost completely. It was a little disappointing, thought Eligos, perched at Baalberith's side. "I request that you punish him for abusing one of your subordinates."

Baalberith chuckled. "You needn't worry about Sytry. Now, then. Was our information correct? Was Dantalion still uninformed?"

"It seems that way, my lord. I could only infer so much before being so cruelly beaten."

"Very well. You are dismissed." Rais left, limping out of the throne room and into the darkness.

"Well now," a gloved hand brushed against her cheek. "You know where you come in, don't you?"

"Yes, your excellency."

"Go then, Eligos. And be sure to keep Dantalion out of the way." He pointed to something far off, some grand future that only he could see. "We can't have him sticking his nose into things it doesn't belong in."

In an instant she was gone, the gap between dimensions already rapidly closing.

Baalberith played idly with his gloved hands. He looked forward to holding that body when it finally returned. Whispering into its ear, telling it how much he had missed it. "The closest I have to—" He caught himself talking out loud. Oh no, there was only one that deserved to hear him say it. Only one. There would only ever be one.

_TBC...?_


	3. Conversations with Camio

Camio liked cool nights and the scent of jasmine wafting through the window. He liked the touch of ebony keys and hearing melodies that reminded him of far off places, of times long ago. Reading and talking to a girl with bright, shining eyes. But it wasn't night; it was early morning. There was no jasmine here and his fingers played silently, hovering just above the keys he didn't press; he didn't want to wake any of the students yet.

"I admire your control, Camio." Her voice came from the shadows. He had known he was being watched for a while. He simply had been waiting for her to speak.

"Eligos." She emerged from the darkness, her heels clicking against the floorboards. Slowly. Salaciously.

"You were always so much better at handling your emotions," she pouted. "Is that why Beez chose you?" _Instead of me_, he heard her say wordlessly.

"Whatever Baalberith is planning won't end well for you." He warned her. He was well aware of the situation in Hell.

She laughed, the sound of it peeling the ceiling.

"And always _so_ serious! Not even a greeting, not even going to ask me how I'm managing my new candidacy?"

Camio's eyes narrowed. Working under the same leader for all those years had not made them friends.

She simpered toward him, her body a degree below uncomfortably close. "I prefer your other form, Camio," she pouted, remarking on his short hair and glasses. "You wear too many clothes in this one." She took a lock of his hair and tangled it in her fingers. "And your hair's much too short."

Camio scooted off the piano stool and stood up, getting away from her reach. "Ah? Did I get too close?" She backed away, pivoting her foot on tiptoe. "Am I not your precious Maria?"

The mention of her name on _those_ lips... it made Camio want to flay her open. No one's secrets were safe in Hell.

"Why are you here?" He said instead. Evenly. Without emotion.

"A simple favor. A reasonable request." Her diamond eyes flashed razor sharp. "Blackmail."

"Explain."

"Very well." She sat on the stool, resting her elbow on the piano keyboard. It made a cacophonous sound, harsh and discordant and threatening. "From what I've observed, you're well aware of my appointment by Lord Baalberith." She crossed her legs idly, then uncrossed them again. "The same can't be said for our other fellow candidate."

Camio expression sharpened.

"I simply request that you don't tell Dantalion about my candidacy and this little meeting." She said, her voice artificially sweet.

"Or what?"

She bent her other elbow on the keyboard. Another rapturous noise.

"We know all about that little cottage in the country where you keep her. It would be a shame if her illness got worse."

Camio didn't let her see his anger, but he seethed on the inside, a violent vortex of chaos and rage.

"What point is there to keeping Dantalion in the dark?" He asked. In his mind, he thought of a few. He knew that Dantalion's mistress, Astaroth was constantly at odds with Baalberith. But still, he wondered why he had been dragged into the whole mess.

"Ah." She pushed herself off the piano and to her feet. "That's a secret only Lord Baalberith needs to know."

Camio did not provide her a response.

"Well, then." She made to leave the room, her fingers laced together in faux imitation of a coquettish girl. "Oh, and Camio." She spoke without turning around. "I hope being political rivals won't come between us. I _do_ miss our occasional conversations." Then she was gone, dissolving into shadows.

Camio slammed the cover over the piano as soon as she left. There would be no more playing for today. He finally let himself grimace.

* * *

"Alright. Time to wake up," William's voice burst into the underclassmen's room. The sun was shining hard through the windows and William had already been up for half an hour already. "Report for roll call in five minutes."

He made his way through all the rooms and then waited downstairs for the roll. It did not surprise him when Sytry did not show up.

"Cartwright?" Swallow called. He turned his attention to the boys from the demon's room. "Do you know where Cartwright is?"

"He wouldn't get up," one boy said.

"It was the strangest thing," another boy chimed in. "We tried baiting him with cookies, that usually works, but he still wouldn't get up."

Swallow turned to William. "Do you think it's an illness? He was gone all day yesterday, too."

William voiced his uncertainness.

"I'll go check up on him," Swallow continued.

"No," William interjected. "Let me."

"Very well." Swallow guided the boys outside as William climbed the stairs.

Sytry's room was dark when he opened it. Someone had drawn the curtains over the windows but there was also something else. A dark feeling that William couldn't comprehend. "Sytry?"

The bundle of sheets on the bed at the far end of the room did not move.

"Sytry." William called, walking into the room, into the shadows, and placing his hand on the sheets. They were warm.

William tried to think. What had Kevin said to him on days when he wasn't feeling well? Memories of himself, sick in his bed welled up. Kevin had prepared soup himself for him and had stayed by his side, saying silly things that would make him laugh. _"Oh, young master! I'm sure you'll start feeling better by tomorrow. I'd put money on it. Ten pounds. Twenty pounds even!" _He'd even held up the money, to prove that he was serious in the whole endeavor.

William made a face. Perhaps Kevin wasn't the best example for a situation like this.

Instead, William leant over the bed and pulled open the curtains. Light swept through the room, dispelling the darkness that had been there. The sheets shuddered. "Up, Sytry. If you want to call in sick, that's fine. But we have procedures for this kind of thing. You have to go to the infirmary or have a doctor look at you." He grabbed hold of the sheets and in one vicious pull, pulled it off.

Sytry curled his body, covering his face. "As prefect," William continued, "I can call a doctor for you, but only if you give me a reasonable excuse. Otherwise, I'll have to drag you to class." Sytry rolled over and shot him a glare.

William sighed. At least it was something.

"Doctor or class. What'll it be?"

"Camio." The response was icy cold.

"The headboy wasn't one of the options."

"I need to speak with him." Biting and bitter.

"Doctor or class?"

"Leave me alone." Frigid.

Sytry picked himself off the bed and walked right passed William to the other side of the room.

"Hey!" William stalked to the doorway, blocking it with his body. "Just tell me what's wrong." He hoped his face showed the level of concern better than his angry voice. "What's going on with you? First you're missing for a day and a half. Then you start wailing on that Gilles de Rais guy. Not to mention how you're being way more uncooperative than usual."

Sytry stood in front of him, his mouth not making a sound. His eyes unreadable. Impenetrable.

"Can't you trust me?" William's tone was steady. "If something's bothering you, I'll help in whatever way I can. That's my role as a prefect, after all." It was a compelling argument, William thought. He was showing his concern, now. He had certainly mastered Rhetoric class. They'd be promoting him soon.

"Be careful, William." Sytry's voice was still melancholy.

"Huh?" William left his spot in the doorway. "Shouldn't I be telling _you_ to be careful?" It frustrated him how much he still didn't understand these demons after all the time he had spent with them. On the surface they seemed respectable, but they fought savagely. And they were so damn secretive.

He stared at Sytry for what must have been a few seconds but felt like eternity. As if it would reveal the answers somehow. As if Sytry would magically revert back to his usual cookie-eating, bratty self.

"Goodbye." Sytry shoved passed him. In another moment he was out of sight, escaping from William's gaze, out of the range of his pity.

William, however, understood one thing. Sytry Cartwright would not be in school today. A sinking feeling caught hold of him at that moment. What did he know about demons, anyway? From what he had observed they were all different, each with their own quirks and shortcomings. Each with their own secret hopes and desires. Each stubbornly moving in his or her own direction. Like humans.

William sighed. What mess had he gotten himself into? No, rather, what mess had others—demons _and_ humans—thrust upon him? No, didn't it go something like some greatness thrust upon them? He scratched his head. He'd need to start studying his Shakespeare again. Yes, that was what he'd occupy his mind with, not demon egos and elections. He walked down the stairs, out of the dormitory and to his class. Arithmetic. It wasn't his favorite subject, but he was good at it. So good in fact, that he found himself tutoring the boy sitting next to him.

"No, you forgot this symbol over here." William pointed.

"You don't say," the boy followed his finger.

William couldn't quite remember what this boy's name was. He didn't think he came from his dormitory.

"Yes, yes, over there. Pay more attention next time."

"Ah, thank you Mr. Twining!"

_Mr. Twining_. Yes, that had a nice ring to it. He felt grown up now. Perhaps he'd retire and be a professor, discussing theses, arguing about the latest research, or whatever professors did. Of course, he'd have to deal with students. But students weren't so bad, especially when you could lord over them like some kind of...

"Class dismissed!"

William snapped out of his daydreams.

In all of his classes leading up to lunch period, the boy sat next to him. William found it rather annoying. He didn't need another lackey, he had Isaac for that, after all.

* * *

In Hell, Astaroth had begun gathering her armies. She cut a radiant figure, now, standing on the ruins of the wasteland, her warship hovering behind her.

Before her stood a crowd of demons, flags raised with her sigil. They were all eager for battle, she could taste it in the air. She had rallied them up with talk of finally taking over that Anti-Nephilim bigot, Baalberith. She assured them victory, promised that they would never be looked down upon by those pompous pure demons ever again.

"But what of Sytry?" Beelzebuth had asked her before. The two had arranged a secret meeting to discuss her plans just prior to the rally.

"What _of_ Sytry?" She purred. Even now, she could make Beelzebuth do anything she wanted, granted it was in his best interest to do so.

"I wouldn't advise riding into battle with someone who only just changed factions, whose position hasn't been made explicitly clear." Beelzebuth chided.

"So?" Astaroth argued. She liked arguing. She hated being shut out. Baalberith liked to do that to her, often. She hated him. "Sytry has every reason to want revenge on his uncle. I'm simply providing the means for him to do so."

"You shouldn't sacrifice your army for another's revenge." Beelzebuth reprimanded her.

"It's not only _that_. That Baalberith is dangerous. He's stolen an angel from heaven, a demon from you. We don't know what else he's capable of." She looked for the concern on Beelzebuth's face and found it. "Imagine if his candidate takes the throne—Eligos, Sytry, it doesn't matter—they'd just be his puppet, without a mind of their own. Imagine a Hell ruled by Baalberith." She stopped herself, the thoughts making her paranoid. All the nephilim would probably be exiled to somewhere revolting, and pure demons would live a life of entitlement and priveledge. They'd make the nephilim into slaves, or worse.

"The three of us would still have power. Don't forget that, Ash." He called her by her nickname. It was comforting to know he still thought of her that way.

"Regardless, now is the perfect time to attack. Baalberith has worn his forces thin, and with Sytry's help, we stand a chance against him."

"Don't forget, Ash," Beelzebuth tone darkened. "I'm not part of this little war of yours. _You_ and Sytry have a chance against Baalberith, perhaps. Nothing more. No _one_ more."

She nodded. A chance was good enough for her. "I'll start assembling my armies then. I trust you and Samael will not interfere."

"No aid, no hindrances," Beelzebuth shook his head. "I only wonder what you hope to gain from all this. Sytry, if he takes Baalberith's place, would still be your rival when the war is over."

"He _would_," Astaroth walked to the window. Great dust clouds had formed. Her armies were coming. "But he'd still be easy to control." She looked at her reflection in the glass, absolutely diabolical. "I'd make him my own puppet if it meant the end of discrimination against the nephilim."

Beelzebuth sighed. "Even when you were human, you were like that. So cunning. So calculating. So shrewd."

He rose from his chair. "Well, then. Our meeting is over. I wish you luck. You'll need it." She heard him prepare to leave.

She turned in an instant and caught him looking at her. Looking at _her_. The look he spared her was agonizingly long and full of tension and unsaid words, memories welling up from many, many years ago, from deserts and shining limestone and ancient stars and wild, Egyptian nights.

The memory brought a smile to her lips. In front of her the demons cheered, the end of nephilim subjugation close at hand. _But what of Sytry_?, the thought still plagued her head. Would he be able to lead the assault knowing that his uncle, the demon that had raised him, was on the other side? Astaroth wasn't sure. But she did know that the demons in front of her were more than willing to die for a chance to lay a finger or claw on the Bastard in the West.

* * *

Sytry had grown impatient waiting for Camio. His foot tapped rapidly, incessantly against the wooden floor in the piano room. He stared at the vaulted ceiling, counted all the spider webs in it, and then started on the moths. Finally, Camio entered, his form the respectable and flawless Nathan Caxon.

"I need your advice, Camio," Sytry stood up. He could not waste another moment. "How do I lead an invasion? How do I command armies? How do _you_ do it?"

Camio looked at him intently. He knew, or seemed to know, exactly what Sytry was referring to and wasted no time asking for explanations. "Demons are constantly trying to obtain power. As nearly eternal beings, they live for it. Bribe them with spoils of war."

Sytry shook his head. "No, that's something my uncle would do. If I will become the next king, I want to do it my _own_ way."

Camio smiled. "Then I think you've found your answer, Sytry."

Stytry stared. Someone had taught him it was rude to stare, but he knew who that person was and didn't need their lessons anymore. Sytry stared in admiration at the demon in front of him. Camio had led armies against Heaven's invasion. Camio had slain demons that threatened the tranquility of the human world. Camio was the perfect candidate to rule Hell and Sytry wondered what he was doing, asking such a demon—only half at that—how to command an army, let alone himself.

"I just want..." He started, but he couldn't think of the rest.

* * *

William woke, his head heavy with drowsiness. The last thing he remembered was sitting down to lunch outside, the boy from Arithmetic class asking him if he wanted to try a bite of his sandwich. He looked up and his vision blurred. Tall, green shapes swayed overhead. He waited a few more seconds for his eyes to focus. They did, ever so slightly, so that he could figure out the tall green shapes were reeds. He was on a riverbank somewhere.

The boy from class was looming over him. "Awake are we?" No, not the boy from class. A woman.

William blinked. At once he saw the boy, then the woman. They cut into the same picture, at once one and the other. His head hurt.

He, or _she_ rather, touched his face. "No wonder Camio spends so much time here. Dantalion too. You look just like _him_." She cooed. Her voice was pleasing, soft. He wanted to shut his eyes again, be buried in that voice.

She obliged him, crawling on top of his body.

"Oh, Elector," she said, her hips straddling him. "Will you please elect me?"

"Who are you?" He mumbled. This felt pleasant, nice even. He didn't mind that he didn't know what time it was. Had he missed History class?

"I am Eligos, King Baalberith's candidate and one of Solomon's pillars." William's head hurt. Wasn't somebody else Baalberith's candidate? He couldn't for the life of him remember who. He almost couldn't remember who _he_ was.

Meanwhile, the movements she was making were delicious. She certainly was talented at this sort of thing. Any more and it would be a scandal...

_Scandal_...

His perfect future was in jeopardy!

In an instant, he threw her off him with such speed that he doubted even Dantalion could match him.

"Elector! Do I not please you?" She cried from the place she landed.

"I can't be doing those sorts of things! Do you know who I am?" He shakily pushed himself up on his elbows so that he was sitting. Well, if you called leaning on your elbows sitting.

"You are the Elector, descendent of Solomon." She said. Now he recognized her. The demon that had impersonated Swallows' father. Eligos.

He mustered up all the strength in his voice. "No!," he shouted. "I am William Twining, future prime minister of England." His head still felt cloudy, but he was steadily regaining his balance.

"Fine, William Twining then." Her voice wasn't pleasant anymore. "I'll ask you again. Elect me." In fact, it was utterly spiteful.

"I will do no such thing." He couldn't think up a good reason not to, but he thought his answer was sufficient by itself. Sufficient enough for him at least.

"Then I guess I have no choice." She said. In her hands, a big, dark ball of energy grew. William only just had time to roll over before the ground beside him was rent in two.

"You won't be so lucky next time," she called. She was standing up now, her figure domineering and harsh.

"You _would_ believe that," William replied, venom dripping from his tongue. But, in fact, he _did_ believe her. Whatever it was that she had done to him was still in his system. His reactions were slow and sluggish. He wouldn't have enough time to get away from her, rolling or not.

She let out a peel of laughter.

He'd need a miracle, except he didn't believe in _those_ either.

* * *

Dantalion hadn't quite recovered from last night. Oh, he was still perfectly fine, but his sense of worth had been thrown out the window and back (which, incidentally was what he was doing now, retrieving a ball that had crashed through one of the dormitory's windows). So nobody thought he was important enough to be told anything, huh? Astaroth had been silent, Mamon and Amon were nowhere to be found and Sytry had downright lied to him. He had a mind to march up to the demon himself and demand an explanation.

But he didn't quite feel like doing that either.

What he _did_ feel like doing was talking with Camio. Surely, the all powerful half-demon knew something. Dantalion had always respected Camio, although the two never talked much. Not that he didn't want to, but Dantalion never got the chance to, and besides them both being candidates, the two didn't have much in common. Camio was stoic and silent while Dantalion was approachable and loud. Camio observed, Dantalion participated. He had often caught the so-called headboy watching him play rugby or cricket. He'd give a swift, knowing nod as Dantaliion made a successful pass or hit and in that moment Dantalion would feel that all was right with the world.

That was the Camio Dantalion knew.

He returned the ball to the team and then excused himself from the game, taking the path to the upperclassmen's dormitory. It was quite a pretty building, Dantalion reflected, lined with hyacinths and perennials. The paint constantly fresh and none of the windows broken. So clean too. He opened the door and followed the music.

"Dantalion," Camio greeted him, his face never turning from the sheet music as he entered the room. As if he needed sheet music, Dantalion thought, he had had years to memorize every major concerto half a dozen times over.

"Camio," Dantalion greeted back. He strode toward a divan on the other side of the room, intent on having a long chat. It was only then that he noticed Sytry, curled up on the daybed, his back turned to him, the whole room and the rest of the world.

"Don't bother him," Camio more or less commanded, his fingers still never leaving the notes.

_Don't bother him?_ Dantalion could feel his knuckles cracking, his rage thickening. _Don't bother him?_ They had done a fine job of not bothering Dantalion, not bothering to tell him anything that is. Now, Camio and Sytry were colluding with each other and he had been told not to _bother._ Oh, he would _bother_ alright.

"I'm tired of everyone treating you like some kind of doll." Dantalion turned his anger over to Sytry, flipping him over and holding him down. The other shot a look at him of pure annoyance. "What's going on?"

Sytry looked away. Camio bowed his head.

"Not you, too, Camio." Now Dantalion was angry. He would turn this room to ruins in five seconds if nobody told him what was going on. He could feel an aura gathering around him, thick and pungent with hate.

"I think you should tell him, Sytry." Camio spoke calmly. Eligos had only said _he_ couldn't tell Dantalion anything, not anyone else.

"What's the point? It doesn't concern him." Sytry spoke, his tone so apathetic. So blunt. Dantalion seethed.

"He has a right to know."

Sytry hesitated. He had wanted his relationship with Dantalion to remain how it was, always cutting the other down. Always at odds, but with a mutual trust that only the two of them shared. He did not want this Dantalion, who held him down and demanded answers.

"Sytry..." Camio urged softly.

Sytry looked up at Dantalion, who looked much less angry now. In fact, he looked concerned, his mouth partly open, awaiting an answer. Would this be the look Dantalion gave him from now on? A look that meant they weren't enemies anymore? That they were some else, something more...?

"The truth is..." Sytry began.

It hit them all at once, a black surging of energy coming at them from all directions. A demon had appeared near them, and a strong one at that. They all rushed to the source of the power without another hesitation, the same thought rushing through their minds.

* * *

Mamon and Amon did not like cramped cages. They did not like not being able to stretch their wings all the way, the scheduled feeding times, and not being able to annoy Master Dantalion. When they had stumbled upon Eligos in Baalberith's castle, they had thought it important that they told their master right away (and get on his nerves after, of course). Unfortunately, Baalberith himself had captured them. "Can't have rats with wings snooping around," he had said, his tone rising in a sickening way.

Oh, that comment had made Mamon's blood boil. Rats with wings? The guy was so unoriginal.

One lone servant had been coming in to check on them in what Mamon assumed was Baalberith's dungeon. Mamon had tried to ask it for information, but it was a little hard, the demon being headless and all. Currently, the headless demon was dribbling soup into their cage's feeder.

"How does it know where to pour the soup?" Amon asked.

"No idea," Mamon shrugged.

This dungeon, perhaps the castle even, blocked their magic with some kind of barrier. There was no way that they could communicate with Dantalion and he with them. Dantalion was probably ready to rip their wings off, now that he hadn't heard anything from them in the last few days. He was probably out of the loop right now as it was, so desperate for information he was doing something foolish.

"Well," Amon said, sipping up the soup. "At least it's on par with Baphomet's cooking."

Mamon joined him. Yes, not bad, a little too sweet, but not bad.

"I don't know about you, Amon, but it's kind of nice to take a break for once." He leaned back against the bars.

"Yeah, Master Dantalion's been so demanding lately, spending all his time in the human world." Amon lifted his head from the soup. "I'm tired of that place already."

"Maybe we've been looking at this situation the wrong way," Mamon said excitedly. "I say we just think of it as vacation. A cold, dank, dark vacation."

"Excellent idea!" Amon lapped up the soup. "Headless guy! We'd like seconds please!"

Surprisingly, headless guy was very obliging. Headless guy could also, apparently, hear.

* * *

Eligos stood over the elector. They were far from the school now and she doubted anyone would be able to hear the screaming that was soon to follow. The black orb of energy pulsed in her hand, a crackling, heavy mass and she released it and watched it make a direct hit. She awaited the Elector's screams, her lips curving into a vicious smile.

But it never came.

Instead, she was knocked off her feet by a great and terrible force. Her eyes opened quickly to reveal the Elector in Dantalion's arms and above her...

"Get up, Eligos. It's time we settle this." Sytry glared at her.

"Well, if it isn't the failure." She was on her feet in the next moment, dusting herself off and wiping away the blood from her mouth. "It's a shame I didn't kill you when I had the chance."

Sytry didn't respond.

"Oh, what's this? Still so high and mighty even after getting thrown out?" She prepared another black ball of pulsing energy, this time imbuing it with the jealousy and rage she had felt after years of living in Camio's shadow. "Pride _does_ go before a fall." She surveyed the field. Dantalion was obviously too preoccupied with the Elector to do anything. Camio was there, now that she noticed it, but she doubted he would do anything if he wanted to see his darling Maria ever again.

That left only Sytry. She hurled the orb at him. He blocked it, as she predicted he would, but she was behind him in another second, preparing a shorter but quicker burst. It hit him square the back and he yelped in pain.

She delighted in the sound. She usually didn't care who it was, as long as she got to hear them howl in agony, but for Sytry she made an exception. _Time to exterminate her predecessor._ She wondered how proud Baalberith would be when she delivered the news.

Meanwhile, Sytry had turned around and shot a clear and bright burst back at her. She dodged it easily, but wasn't fast enough to avoid the other one. Her left arm ruptured in pain. She had no time to focus on it, however. Another volley was approaching her fast, but she had learned her lesson. She jumped into the air and sent small energy surges streaming down.

Sytry covered his face, blocking some, but not all. It cut at his arms, tearing his clothes and leaving blood.

At the same time, Dantalion and Camio had run away from the attack, shielding the Elector with their own bodies and barriers. _How sweet_, she thought. _Protecting the Elector with your own lives_. It would be all the sweeter when she stole his vote right out from under them.

She prepared to hurl another rainstorm of sparks, but her target was not there. In her musings, she had not noticed that Sytry had jumped up to meet her, was sending a burst of light right to her place in the air.

It hit and she screamed, her body writhing in agony. She fell, hitting the ground with a sickening shudder. She could feel the earth underneath her and hated that she had to get her clothes dirty.

_So this is his true power_, Eligos contemplated bitterly. She allowed herself a few moments to regain her senses before rising.

Now, Sytry stood before her, ready to send another blow her way.

Eligos spat out the blood that had been welling up in her mouth. She'd need to think of another strategy. She wasn't stronger than Sytry, not when he was like this. Something had changed since their battle in the throne room. He was not just stronger, but more focused than he had been there. Before, he had looked every bit the helpless victim of Baalberith's fickleness. Now he was a noble demon, a former candidate to rule Hell. Eligos hated herself for letting her guard down.

"My," she said. "Well, this is fun. I look forward to telling your uncle all about this when I deliver your head to him."

Sytry showed no emotion. "This is a fight between you and me, Eligos. Don't bring up anyone else."

_So serious_. She would enjoy breaking that proud, upright spine of his.

He hit her with a quick attack, forcing her to bring up her shields. She had never been one to use shields much, and she detested when she was forced to. She used that anger to gather another ball of black energy and throw it at Sytry. He, too, called up his shield at the last second.

Both sent forward attacks, and each time that attack was blocked. They were at a stalemate.

Camio and Dantalion had, in the interim, been silent observers, farther away now so that there was no way that they could intervene in a pinch. As she blocked another attack, she spared them a look. It sickened her how they crowded over the Elector, their backs to the battle. He may have had Solomon's soul, but he was no different from an ordinary human being. He was still only a mortal.

_Oh, yes, that was the trick, wasn't it?_

She changed her position, leaving her wide open for an attack by Sytry. He saw the opportunity, and took it, sending a beam of light in her direction, which she dodged by jumping over it and into the air again. She smiled, just as she had planned. Then she gathered the dark energy into a gigantic black surge which she sent hurtling toward the Elector.

"Nooo!" She heard Sytry scream and in another second he was intercepting her attack, taking the brunt of it head on. She watched with extreme pleasure as he fell to his knees.

"How pathetic. Risking your life to save a human's, even if it _is_ the Elector's." She turned toward Dantalion and Camio, whose attentions were now fully turned toward the scene. "You all should feel ashamed! Your actions are a disgrace to demons everywhere."

"You _would_ think that, Eligos." Sytry faced her. He was on his knees with blood in his eyes, but he stared her down with as much contempt as if he was towering over her. "I don't remember Solomon liking you as much as he liked the three of us."

It was a bitter memory, cutting her to the core. "Shut up!" She prepared to rain down sparks again.

"Did it hurt, Eligos? Did it hurt when your precious Beelzebuth elected Camio, a mere half-demon, instead of _you_?" Sytry smiled ruthlessly.

Her body filled with rage.

"Shut up!" She sent the rains down, not caring where it hit.

Sytry must have predicted that, because he dashed to the side during her attack, sparks hitting him and leaving only light burns.

He stood below her, looking her dead in the eye. "Because it hurt _me_, Eligos." A beam of light was forming in his hand, turbulent and whirling. Eligos could feel all the energy being absorbed by that single attack. "It hurt when I heard my uncle had elected you. It hurt when he rejected me right in front of you, when he left before I could say another word to him." His hands fumbled a little but remained strong. "But the truth is, Eligos—your attacks, everything you've thrown at me back then and now—they're nothing compared to what _he's_ done."

Sytry focused. All the pain, resentment, all the anger and the sadness, too. He put it all into this attack, everything he had. "That's why, candidate or not, my uncle's favorite or not, there's no way I'm losing to you again."

She blinked, dumbstruck by his power.

He smiled, sarcasm heavy. "It's a disgrace to my lineage, after all." He sent it all to her, the beam so wide she couldn't dodge it, and watched as she was blown into the air, the beam sending her far away from them. To Hell itself.

And then it was gone. All the power he had felt, all the pride he had gathered in that moment, dispersed into a ball of dignified, burning light. Sytry fell to his knees again. He panted, worn out and spent. There would be no attacks like that again for a long, long while.

Dantalion and Camio rushed over to him, William barely conscious in Dantalion's arms. "Sytry?"

"I guess I owe you an explanation." Sytry faced them. "It's true what she said. My uncle has disowned me. I am no longer a candidate." He coughed out blood. "Sorry for not telling you, William."

"Sytry..." Dantation heard William gasp.

Sytry was bleeding from his mouth, the blood mixing in with the mud on the ground. He was probably all muddy, all bloody too.

"So that's why you..." Dantalion started but didn't finish. Something flashed before all their eyes, something like when they had felt Eligos' presence, but at the same time, different. Something made of light.

"What's the meaning of this?" A voice fired in back of them. They all turned around.

Reverend Kevin Cecil stared down at the three of them, his eyes filled with disapproval. However, his expression was quick to change to one of concern when he noticed the state of William in Dantalion's arms.

"Y-young master!" He rushed to Dantalion's side and the demon handed him over without protest.

Kevin then backed away from them. William appeared to be fine, for the most part, which brought a sigh of relief to his chest.

"What are you doing out here?" He asked sternly, but none of them answered.

"Students are not to leave school grounds without permission. Report to your classes immediately!"

Huber was the first to acknowledge him. "Yes, Reverend Cecil."

He turned his attention back to William. "Are you alright, young master?"

"Mmm... jussleepyissall," William's voice slurred.

The "students," as Kevin insisted on calling them, had begun to head back toward the school. They moved silently, wordlessly, and Kevin glimpsed at the dark auras that surrounded them under the bright, afternoon sun. Cartwright's aura was especially dark, crackling off of him in fragmented waves.

Kevin scowled. Had he been too quick to trust _them_ with William's safety? He had known what they were from the beginning, but he had let them go because they seemed to care about William, because they saw him as something more than a pawn—as Michael had so aptly put it. But now he wasn't so sure. They could not be trusted, that was why they were in their position to begin with.

William mumbled in his arms, his voice shallow, words meshing into one. "Nogooddemons. Ruiningmyperfectfuture."

Kevin smiled. Enough talk of demons for now. "Rest now, young master. I'll bring you to the infirmary." Kevin started heading in the direction of the school. He'd have to be more careful now.

* * *

On a crowded street, Reverend Crosby hailed a carriage. The skies over London had become muggy and thick with the promise of rain. Crosby hated London rain, long rivers of sludge running over the streets, the deluge making the Thames surge. That disgusting river, a cesspool of humanity and all its sins. He would have preferred the country, that boarding school out in the middle of nowhere with its skies and rivers clear. The children holding bright futures, the fear of God instilled in them from a young age.

Except for one.

His eyes narrowed as he ascended into the carriage. When he took his seat, he noticed something. There was someone sitting opposite of him, the darkness of the carriage obscuring his features.

At once he sensed it, clearer than the first note of a hymn. The other passenger was a demon.

"Come to offer me a contract?" Crosby said casually, as if he was talking of business matters. He grabbed the vial of holy water in his jacket pocket. "I regret to inform you that I'm not interested."

The demon held up its hand. "I have a proposition for you, Reverend Crosby. Hear me out and then you can decide if you want to use that holy water or not."

Crosby smiled callously. "I don't make deals with the devil," he took it from his pocket, intent on splashing the vile creature with it.

"It's not a deal, but it does involve revenge." At this, Crosby's hand lowered.

"What do you mean?"

"Weren't you livid over losing your position at the academy? Wouldn't you like to get back at those who did that to you?"

Now Crosby was listening, the holy water all but forgotten. "Explain."

"One of those demons is in an extremely vulnerable state right now," the demon started, its voice thick with a strange mix of poison and glee. "It has lost the protection of its benefactor and is without a friend in this world or the next." The creature clasped its hands together. "It would be no trouble at all to snatch that demon away, to inflict on it the pain that you felt."

Crosby returned the vial to his breast pocket. Yes, _that_ would be nice, getting his revenge. Those demons had taken more away than just his job. His pride, his self-respect, his faith even. Oh, he still believed in Heaven alright, but his faith in Heaven _caring_ about one of its loyal servants had been diminished. Heaven hadn't been watching when that demon had almost killed him, when he'd almost been sent to Hell himself. He wondered if Heaven would like watching him cut a demon open.

"I can see that you like the idea," the demon observed.

"Of course I like it. You demons are so quick to catch the scent of human desire, after all." _Do you hear that demon? I'm calling you a dog._ "But I know better than to agree to this plan without hearing your side first. What's in it for you?"

The demon shifted a bit and in one fleeting moment, Crosby glimpsed at a scar running across its face.

"I simply request one thing," it said.

Crosby was sure it was smiling. He listened and started smiling too.

_TBC...?_


	4. Whispers with William

Leonard read the letter, then threw it into the flames. Lady Astaroth was requesting assistance, but she hadn't said a word about Lord Sytry.

When Gilles de Rais had come into the castle, requesting—no, demanding—an audience with King Baalberith, Leonard had simply acquiesced and had asked no questions about the bandages on his face. But his curiosity had been piqued when he had overheard Gilles saying that Lord Sytry had been responsible for the injuries. Leonard had heard no mention of Lord Sytry after that, not from Gilles, Eligos or King Baalberith himself. He wanted to think that was for the better, but he couldn't convince himself.

Now, Lady Astaroth was asking for help and Leonard wondered just how much of a dire position he would be put in if he responded to her request. If he did it, King Baalberith would likely be angry at him. If he didn't, Lord Sytry would basically be Astaroth's prisoner, she could do whatever she wanted to him, after all. She was his only ally in Hell, after all. Without another moment's hesitation, he snuck off to the dungeons, careful to not let anyone see him. He had seen King Baalberith off—a little visit to the human world—and so Leonard knew this opportunity could not be wasted. Eligos was gone as well, and as for Gilles, Leonard had no idea about Gilles.

He walked down the halls, the decor a little unsettling (even if this _was_ Hell) and finally found the little cage, suspended in one of the deeper parts of the dungeon.

"Hey, Mamon, it's that sheep butler that lost to Baphomet," one of the bats said.

"It is, isn't it?" The other one said. It faced him. "While you're here, I'd like to request something other than soup for once. A savory meat pie, maybe. Or, or, paté. And don't add too much sugar this time."

Leonard blinked. Were these two worth risking his life over?

"I'm not here to deliver food," he whispered, sure that someone might hear him. "I'm here to release you."

At that, the bats quirked their ears.

"Free us? Baalberith's cook is going to free us? Do you hear that, Amon?"

"It's probably a trick. He's probably going to turn us into soup or something."

"And I'll bet he'll add too much sugar again, too."

"Just to let you know, I don't taste very good—"

"—me neither—"

"—so it would be an insult to your master if you served us—"

"—it would. Then it would be _you_ who was turned into soup—"

"—no, sheep are mutton—"

"—lamb chops—"

"—shanks—"

"Would you two please stop talking!" Not in his entire, immortal life had Leonard been so exasperated. "Listen, if I help you, you must promise me something."

"Taking orders from a sheep?" The black bat scoffed. "What do you take us for? We answer only to Master Dantalion."

"I'm the one holding the key." Astaroth had only said to free them, she had said nothing that restricted Leonard from making deals of his own.

"So, what _do_ you want?" The bat made a play at crossing its wings. It didn't quite work, but Leonard thought he got the point of the gesture.

"If I let you out," Leonard was sure to emphasize that he had the upper-hand in this situation, "you must tell me where Lord Sytry is and his condition."

"That's it?" The white bat scoffed. "With the way you were acting, I thought you'd want us to hide a body or something."

"It's a simple recon mission," the black bat continued. "Like we haven't done those half a million times before."

"I did lose track on the number. Is it really half a million now?"

"I'm almost sure of it. Master Dantalion is _soooo_ demanding. I mean, he's the reason we're locked up here in the first place."

"He just _had_ to have us spy on Baalberith."

"Never mind about _our_ safety."

"Or you know, our general well-being."

"That's the same thing as safety, you idiot!"

"I knew that!"

"Well anyway, you're lucky you don't have to work for him." The bat turned its attention toward Leonard, who was just about to comment on the irony of the claim when the other bat broke in.

"Now, Grand Duchess Astaroth. That's a lady I wouldn't mind working for."

"I'd volunteer to be part of her outfit if you know what I mean—"

"That's enough you two." Leonard whispered harshly. He looked around, sure that they had invited some unwanted attention. As it was, they were losing valuable time. "Look, I'm not here because of Dantalion. It's actually Lady Astaroth that's requesting your escape. You're to report to her _after_ me."

The bats grinned at each other. "Mamon, could it be that our dreams are finally coming true?"

"I think so, Amon! Grand Duchess Astaroth must be in need of a new brassiere. I think bat shapes are in season, even!"

They just kept carrying on and on, congratulating themselves on the promotion to Lady Astaroth's undergarments. Leonard was at the end of his rope, this little bat-skin rope.

"Alright!" He turned the key and let them out. "Now, don't forget our deal. Check on Lord Sytry first."

"Oh yes, oh yes." The two flew from the cage, flying off into the darkness of the corridor, chatting of Lady Astaroth and her bust size.

Leonard was left standing in the dank, underground cell, totally worried and not entirely convinced that they had so much as heard him.

* * *

What scared Dantalion the most was the silence. Oh, it had been perfectly noisy when he, Camio, and Sytry returned to school, but the walk back had been so quiet Dantalion had felt like he was human again, attending a funeral and standing above the grave when everyone had left. A cold and desolate sensation, a wasteland of emotion. Dantalion didn't like that feeling, the being-human-once part or otherwise.

They had spoke once the entire walk back.

"Do you need some help?" He had asked, unable to ignore the fact that Sytry was practically limping over the field, wincing whenever he stepped on something wrong. Dantalion had moved in to support him with his arm.

"I'm fine." Sytry had pulled away, not too aggressively, but enough to tell Dantalion that his support _and_ concern weren't needed. More than that, there was absolutely nothing that Sytry wanted from him now. If ever.

At the current moment, Dantalion was staring out the window, counting down the minutes of his last class of the day.

Now it made sense. Sytry's volatility and the overall silence that surrounded him. How furiously he had attacked Gilles just for being Gilles. And that meeting with Camio. The _fallen_ demon was now in a precarious situation wasn't he? Not only had he fallen out of his uncle's favor—and here Dantalion cringed to think about what that _favor_ truly implied—but he had no position in Hell to speak of. He had no influence anymore and that, along with the strength he had basically drained on Eligos, was all he had really had to begin with. He was powerless now.

Dantalion felt like kicking something. A ball, a human head, it didn't matter. He should have been informed a long ago about this. He supposed that Lady Astaroth knew and that she just hadn't trusted him with the information. He supposed that Amon and Mamon were either incompetent or dead. He supposed that Sytry himself hadn't told him because... because...

"That'll be all for today, class."

Dantalion rose. It was a mechanical gesture and matched none of his usual flair. He ignored the invitations for sports and headed toward the infirmary. Enough thinking about Sytry. There were obviously people more vulnerable than demons, after all. He was just about to turn around the corner when something caught him by the shoulder. He gasped. He usually wasn't caught off his guard, it had to be—

"We need to speak, Dantalion." Camio stood before him, his hand on his shoulder, his eyes stern.

"We _do_, don't we?" Dantalion's eyes narrowed. Camio had been another one who could have told him the situation so much sooner. Not that his _now_ only formidable rival would have been so helpful. He was a demon after all, even if he was only half. Still, it hurt Dantalion to think that a guy like him would purposely withhold information because he thought less of him. _Why the animosity, Camio?_ Or was it something else?

"There's more to it than what Sytry said." Camio's tone was serious and Dantalion, for once, silenced the thoughts running through his head. "It's not just that Baalberith has chosen Eligos and disowned him."

"What more is there?" Dantalion let his impatience be heard.

Camio looked to the side, as if he were searching for something, someone. They were behind a building and it was unlikely that any students or professors would be wandering around there so late in the day. It seemed like they were out of earshot, for humans at least. He then returned his attention to the matter at hand. "Astaroth is gathering her armies."

"Her Highness?" Dantalion's mouth went dry.

"Yes. Lord Beelzebuth told me himself."

Dantalion took a couple steps away, out of his grip. It felt as if the ground had been removed right out from under him, the world spinning in a dizzying way. He needed to get back on top of things. "Then I have to go to Hell right away." He made to leave, to jump through the portal, but Camio stopped him, nearly slamming him against the wall. "You can't!"

"Why not?!" He shouted, mystified at Camio's boldness.

"I haven't finished yet." Camio let go of him and Dantalion let himself calm down.

"What's going on?" He looked Camio dead in the eye.

"Astaroth plans to attack Baalberith." Dantalion's breath hitched. "With Sytry at her side."

Dantalion turned away. So even Astaroth had been hiding things from him. Of course, he had always known, but not to this degree: teaming up with someone who had looked down on her and all her faction. On _him_. Never mind that Sytry was close to defenseless now. Why him? Why her? "Why would she do that?" He muttered under his breath.

"She means for Sytry to usurp Baalberith and rule over the West."

Dantalion shook his head. "It's a stupid idea. It'll never work."

Camio held his silence. There was no point in him agreeing or disagreeing. Whatever outcome there was, even if it meant Astaroth's or Sytry's death, could only benefit him.

"I just don't see why..."

"Astaroth is worried," Camio started. "She fears there is something deeper than Baalberith just choosing another candidate. She wants to strike him before he strikes her or, even worse, all of Hell."

Dantalion bit his lower lip. Now _that_ did sound like a very real possibility. Had Baalberith grown bored waiting for the elector to make up his mind? If that was the case, then Sytry and Eligos hardly mattered anymore. Baalberith would take on the other three kings and Hell itself, and Dantalion knew that, given enough time, he had a very real chance of conquering it for his own.

"There's something else." Both Dantalion and Camio turned around, shocked to hear the voice.

Sytry stood before them. He had changed into the school uniform, but he still held the marks of battle on his face and determination in his eyes.

"My uncle wants to eradicate all the nephilim in Hell." He said, not quite as concerned as he should have sounded.

Both Dantalion and Camio froze. "What did you say?"

"You heard me."

"But how? Why?" Dantalion internally cursed himself. At first he had known nothing and now he was learning too much. He had been drowning in a sea of blissful ignorance yesterday, he was under an ominous black cloud today.

"I don't know why or how he'll do it, but I _do_ know he needs to be stopped." Sytry took on a pensive look. "Don't get me wrong, I don't care for you nephilim either." Dantalion glared at him. "But no one should have enough power to eliminate an entire class of demons!"

Camio nodded. Dantalion fumed.

"Why haven't you said anything until now!?" Dantalion demanded angrily, taking a few steps toward Sytry.

Sytry looked down. "I couldn't." His tone was barely above that of a whisper.

"What!?" Without warning, Dantalion launched at Sytry and drove him into the ground, his hand around his neck.

"You bastard! Why didn't you say anything!? You could have stopped this long ago!" Dantalion's blood filled with indignation, his hand squeezing tight. "Just what do you have against nephilim anyway? You're nothing but a fucking fallen angel yourself!" He spat out the words, harshly, without mercy. "Let me tell you something, you fell a lot farther than I did. You must have done something incredibly wicked."

Sytry glared at him.

"Dantalion, he's still weak from that battle." Camio called from behind. "Let him go."

Dantalion ignored him. "Well, what did you do?" He felt exceedingly cruel today. He would make Sytry pay, for all the insults, all the apathy, for his uncle's crimes. "Or maybe it was something that was _done_ to you." Dantalion's eyes gleamed black. "Tell me what _he_ did to you, Sytry. Did you like it? Was it good enough to fall from Heaven for?"

"That's enough, Dantalion!" Camio shouted. He started to pry him off.

"You must have liked it," Danatlion whispered maliciously. "I bet you were begging by the end, begging to have your wings ripped off. That's why you're a demon now. _Like me_." Dantalion's fingers clenched one last, excruciating time. "Because you _wanted_ it, you little—"

"I _said_ that was enough!" Camio finally ripped him off of Sytry. He gave a last heated look to Dantalion and then turned his attention to Sytry. Camio paused. Sytry lay on the ground, not moving. For a second, Camio thought Dantalion had killed him; his eyes had no light in them, staring up at the sky with vacuous indifference.

A moment passed by where they all were still, breath not escaping from their throats.

Finally, Sytry blinked and the light returned to his eyes. He sat up and coughed, clutching the marks at his throat. He scowled at Dantalion. Then he picked himself up, dusted the dirt off, and crossed his arms. "Honestly, is that _all_ you nephilim think about?" He laughed, a forced laugh that held no happiness, still weak from his throat. "Such disgusting, filthy creatures. Maybe Hell _would_ be better without you."

This time Camio held Dantalion back. The other raged in his arms, shouting obscenities.

"Why are you doing this, Sytry?" Camio's voice rang clear, despite all the difficulty he had restraining Dantalion. "You know now isn't the time to cause fights."

Sytry's arms fell to his side. Yes, now was definitely _not_ the time to cause any fights. Camio watched as Sytry shook, the last of his strength having drained from that one arrogant gesture. He looked like he could collapse at any moment. He felt Dantalion relax in his arms.

"I'm going to let you go now," Camio said calmly. "Don't start anything or I'll personally have to finish it." He released him.

Dantalion stepped to the side. Sytry wavered where he stood.

"Camio's right. Now isn't the time for this." Dantalion said. He turned to leave them. "We'll talk about this later." Astaroth's war and Baalberith's plan. It was all hitting him at once. He needed to sit down, he needed to take his mind off it or he would erupt. Again. "I'm leaving." He strode off, not bothering to listen to them any longer.

Meanwhile, Camio stared down at Sytry. Sytry was getting paler by the moment and Camio could see his knees were shaking. Had he been holding it all in this entire time? Had he not wanted to look weak in front of Dantalion? Camio didn't know, but whatever the case, in the condition he was in now, Sytry would definitely not have won a fight against Dantalion, or anyone, for that mater.

"You should rest," Camio urged. "Some of your cuts have reopened. You're bleeding."

Sytry looked down at his jacket. Sure enough, red was seeping through the fabric. He wasn't sure whether to thank Camio or tell him off. He decided to simply leave, as Dantalion had done, and find something to close his wounds with. He wondered if his throat would bruise because of that damn nephilim and decided it didn't matter.

He would be leaving the human world soon.

* * *

The sunset had painted the sky pearly velvets and soft reds by the time William woke. He stared at the window for a second and realized he was in the darkened room of the infirmary. He felt well-rested, despite the feeling of his mind being bogged down from sleep. There was someone sitting beside him, but he couldn't tell who it was right away.

"Kev—" He blurted out on instinct and then bit back the name when his eyes adjusted. "Dantalion!"

"How are you feeling, William?" Dantalion was barely more than an outline in the darkness.

"Err..." William rose, letting his back rest against the headboard. There was no pain in his body and William was glad of it. "Fine, actually."

"That's good to hear." William blinked. Was this really Dantalion and not Kevin? No, not even Kevin would sound so detached.

"I remember waking up and that female demon was... umm... trying to coerce me to vote for her." The memories were all fuzzy and William was glad of that too. "And then you and Camio were there and after... after..." he started up with a shock. "Sytry! What happened to him? Was he really replaced by that other demon?"

"Yes," Dantalion said. As if that was the only answer he knew.

"What's going on, Dantalion?" William was a bit irritated now. The well-rested feeling was steadily ebbing away. "Is that why Sytry attacked Rais that other time? Where is he now?"

Dantalion sighed. "I'll go light some candles."

"Dantalion..." William mumbled, but he also needed some light. He wanted answers to sort through. The whole world was better with answers. Answers brightened up the darkness like the demon before him, who was causing the candles to spark and catch fire without touching them. William grimaced. There must have been a perfectly logical explanation for that. Too much electricity in the air? Tiny chemical reactions at the microscopic level? Dantalion lit several candles at once. Yep, there as definitely an explanation for it.

Dantalion returned to his side.

"Now are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Dantalion stared at the human boy, trying to figure out where to start. "Camio will be gone for a while," he said. It was probably the thing that needed the least explaining.

"The headboy? But why?"

"There are demons after someone he holds dear."

"Miss Mullins..." William gasped. "Why, what did Camio do? Why are they after her?"

Dantalion shrugged. "I suspect it has something to do with Eligos being Baalberith's new candidate." Now he had opened the can of worms. Now there would be no end to William's questions. Not that he minded entirely, it was nice keeping William hanging on to his every word. But still, the conversation would eventually devolve into talk of—

"And what about Sytry? I asked you before, what's going on with him and where is he? Why did Baalberith abandon him?"

There was something nice about three questions asked at once. Dantalion could choose which one he answered first, if he chose to answer any at all.

"Apparently, Baalberith and Lady Astaroth will go to war soon." He watched as William's eyes opened wide, although he did not appear to be concerned. "A war? In Hell?"

"Yes." Dantalion could see it, an army of demons stretching all the way to the horizon, the wasteland covered with their blood, Baalberith and his catty grin standing above the wreckage.

William looked down. "So I suppose you want time off to fight that little war of yours?"

"I'm not going." This caused him to look back up.

"But isn't Astaroth your benefactress?"

Dantalion nodded. "She hasn't asked for my help so I don't feel inclined to give it. She wasn't even the one who told me about the war in the first place." Why had he been the last to know all these things? Did they not trust him to such an extent? Or was it part of some master plan, some conspiracy? Would someone take his place like Sytry's?

Now Dantalion was angry again. He was thankful when he heard William's voice. "Whatever. It doesn't concern me. Demons can fight their wars and kill each other for all I care."

"William..." Dantalion groaned. That was not the response he had wanted to hear. If William had commanded him to stop the war, he would have, without a thought for his life, he would have if William asked.

But he hadn't. Solomon might have asked. He might have shook his head and looked off distantly over the horizon, lamenting on how his pillars could not get along. He would have held Dantalion, told him that he was the only one, the _only_ one who understood him and what he wanted. That he was good despite having gone to Hell. That Hell was only a construct, the _real_ Hell was the one humans and demons and angels created for themselves.

"Dantalion?" He snapped back to reality, to the present, at the sound of his name. It was not Solomon before him, but William. William who thought he was wise despite acting so foolish, who thought he was apathetic despite being so kind.

"I'm here," Dantalion said. It was something he always wanted to say whenever William was involved. "I'm staying with you."

"Huh?" The look on William's face was priceless.

Dantalion held back a blush. His anger was completely gone now. He felt better, like his usual self again.

"I mean, since Camio left, I'll be the one protecting you. I won't be leaving any time soon."

"I see." William deadpanned. "Well, since you're not leaving any time soon, why don't you go and get me something to eat." A smirk had crawled its way onto his lips.

"I'm your bodyguard, not your servant." Dantalion crossed his arms and leant back on the chair. He hoped he looked convincing. In truth, he really did want to get William food. He just didn't want to admit that he did.

"Fine," William started to take off the blankets and get out of the bed. "I'll get something myself." He started to move towards the door. "I hope there are no scary demons on my way to the cafeteria. It's already pitch black out."

Dantalion hopped out of the chair before William could take another step. "I got it, I got it. Just don't think this'll become a regular thing, okay?" He was out of the door by the second William had hopped back in bed. Perhaps having demons around had its perks after all.

William had just started to get bored when the door opened. He had expected Dantalion, but it was Sytry that walked through the doorway and came to his side.

"You're better now?" The demon asked.

"Yes!" William was irate. "But I can't say the same for you." It was obvious that Sytry was not _better now_, he walked with a limp and there were marks all over him. Even his eyes looked like they were in pain. "You should be taking care of yourself. It's _you_ who should be in this bed and not me." William was just about to rise but Sytry shook his head.

"Demons don't heal the same as humans. All of this will be gone soon, even if I don't rest." One thing he had never gotten used to since he became a demon: lying with a straight face.

William's tone dropped to a whisper. "But it still hurts, doesn't it?" That caught Sytry off-guard. He looked at him angrily, and for a second William could see the bratty underclassman who loved sweets and hated chores, the one who complained about how the dormitory's beds were too hard and who begged William to give back the candy he had confiscated. Then it was gone, a leaf falling into a pool of miserable, black liquid. His expression returned to one without emotion.

"I'm leaving, William. I thought you should know." Sytry smiled sadly.

"Now you tell me? Not before, but now?" William couldn't figure it out. Did Sytry feel guilty for breaking school rules after all those times? No, of course Sytry would not worry about something like that. Was there something else? What _wasn't_ he thinking of?

"Before, I knew I would be coming back." Sytry had no feeling in his voice, and that fact only angered William all the more.

"Wait. You're leaving? Forever?" Something struck William and he realized what he hadn't been thinking of. "Don't tell me! You're involved in that war, aren't you?"

"So Dantalion already told you." Sytry sneered at the mention of the name and then returned to monotone. "Yes, I'm going to help Lady Astaroth take down my uncle. Or die trying."

William shook his head. "How can you be so indifferent about this? Why do you have to fight him? Why do you have to leave?" William did not like getting emotional, but this situation caused his voice to raise a little higher, for his tone to sound a little more than concerned.

Sytry looked out the window. His voice trembled barely above a whisper. "There are many reasons why I have to fight him." Again, that sad smile. "You have an uncle, don't you, William? What's he like?"

"Nice, I suppose, if not completely irresponsible." Memories of the man flooded into William's head. His uncle, hunched over a desk, trying desperately to balance the estate's account. And failing at it. "I'm not sure if he's dead or not... but this isn't the point. Why do you—?"

Sytry didn't let him finish. "Did he treat you kindly as a child? Did he bring you presents when he visited?"

"Well, yes, he did. He was always going on trips and bringing me back whatever he found in those places. I hardly remember what he gave me. A Chinese robe or a toy from India. I can't even remember where I put those. They must have been sold... Anyway, this has nothing to do with—"

"That's good, William." Sytry turned back to him. There was something unreadable in his eyes, an expression William had never seen anyone use before. "Keep those memories with you. Remember them when you see him again."

Sytry turned to leave, his hair flowing elegantly with him.

"Wait!" William called after him but it was already too late. Sytry had left through the door.

William stared at the wall at the opposite end of the room. He had finally realized the problem. It wasn't that he didn't know anything about demons, he knew almost everything about them. How their world worked, how they operated, what motivated them. What he didn't understand were the specifics: Sytry, Dantalion, and even Camio. He had been around them the most and during that time he had found that he knew less and less about them. They were complex and guarded their pasts like a mother guarded her young. Fiercely, without reservation. William sighed. He still had so much to learn.

It was at that time Dantalion walked in, complaining how the cooks had been so stingy about the soup and how he had craftily been able to sneak four rolls of bread instead of two. William smiled. There were some things, at least, that he understood perfectly.

* * *

Sytry let the cold night air move across his skin. It stung at his face, made his fingers scream for warmth, but it also refreshed him. He moved through it and he felt it wake his veins.

He would return to Hell. He was finally ready. He would give Astaroth her answer, the _real_ answer. That he was sick of hiding in the human world. That he was ready to lead an army of demons to a future unknown. That he _had_ to face his uncle.

The wind whispered through the trees, soft at first and then harsher and harsher. It was a good night to be alone in the human world. He looked up at the stars. Demons did not look up at the stars the same way humans did, aspiring to comprehend some greater meaning in life. There were no thoughts that those little, shining pinpoints could be other worlds, there was no hope that there was more to life than just the body and the soul. Demons looked up at the sky and saw a place they had been struck down from and denied. They saw the heavens dancing and wondered why they could not join. They beheld the entire universe, uncountable consciousnesses flowing on into eternity, and felt completely and utterly alone.

The wind blew over him and this time Sytry felt cold. Yes, it was time now. No more looking at the sky or talking to William or feeling the breeze run through his hair.

He made the magic circle and was just about to jump in when something flung him off his feet. He hit the ground, his senses whirling for a few moments. He was back on his feet before another moment passed, looking at his attacker. What he found were _attackers_, black shapes in the darkness with flailing limbs and wild cries. Demons.

Sytry was able to dodge their attacks for the first few moments. He could tell they were low leveled but even low leveled demons posed a threat in the state he was in now. A strike came at him too quick and landed right in his ribs. He stumbled back, sure the bones had been broken. Another one grabbed his ankle, tentacle-like arms tripping him over and onto the ground.

He breathed hard, searching for the last remnants of his power. Surely, he hadn't wasted it all on Eligos. Surely, he had recovered by now. What he found was nothing, a cold reminder of his powerlessness.

Something whip-like hit him on the back and he let out a scream. _Not _there_. Anywhere but_ there. He turned himself over and jumped off the ground in one quick motion. The swiftness of it made him clutch at his side and an attack of sharp claws grazed him on the shoulder.

He was slower now, his movements less precise than they had been only moments ago. Attacks hit him from all sides and before he knew it he was back on the ground. This time he couldn't get up. The black shapes loomed over him, their outlines hardly perceptible against the black sky.

Yes, the sky would be the last thing he looked at: a reminder of home and flowers and wings. A memory of falling.

_TBC...?_


	5. Revenge with Reverend Crosby

Night had fallen on the human world by the time Mamon and Amon arrived through the portal. For a moment they were suspended high above the schoolyard. Then, gravity had started to work and their wings had to beat furiously to keep up.

"So what now?" Amon asked, soaring through the air, silhouetted by the moon.

"We have to find Viscount Sytry for that sheep guy." Mamon said, looking around. He vaguely remembered which dormitory the demon-noble inhabited. He was just about to head there when he saw something out the corner of his eye.

"What's that?" Amon had noticed it too, black shapes moving in the darkness. They flew through the currents of the night air and arrived just in time to hear the viscount they were looking for scream as one of the black shapes hit his back. Mamon watched, utterly confused by the scene. Such low level demons should have been no problem for the him, but he was losing. And badly.

"We have to do something!" Amon urged him, but Mamon held back.

"Wait for the right time."

Mamon did not recognize any of the demons that were attacking. He usually could recognize a certain demon, or at least figure out what faction they were aligned with, just by looking at them, but these ones gave him no hints. They attacked Sytry, but not in any precise way and Mamon doubted that they had any skills at all besides cheap jabs. But one cheap jab was all it took for Sytry to hit the ground again. The demons crowded over him and Mamon wanted to look away. Instead, he launched at that moment, into the crowd of demons, flapping his wings and trying to... what was he trying to do? Confuse them? Distract them?

They ignored him, shooing his fruitless efforts away.

"Hey! I'm one of Master Dantalion's subordinates!" He yelled at them angrily. "I command you to tell me what's going on here, or... or... I'll sic my master on you!"

They ignored him, crowding around the viscount so that Sytry was out of their sight. One lone tentacle came shooting out of the circle and Amon came swooping in just before it connected with one of Mamon's wings.

"Just what is going on here?" He asked as the two retreated to get out of range.

The demons, again, did not respond. One of them lifted the unconscious Sytry and leapt quickly into the night. Amon caught a glimpse of its face: completely blank.

"They must be someone's familiars," Amon whispered to Mamon. The other nodded. It chilled him to the bone to think that demons weren't immune from the removal of the soul.

"What do they want with Sytry then?" Oh, how Mamon missed that little, delightful cage in Baalberith's dungeon with its thrice daily rations of soup. He felt he had just flew into something nefarious, a plot thicker than the tar pits of Tartarus.

"I'm not sure." He watched as the demons became just a stain against the night sky. Surely, Leonard would be satisfied with this report. _Oh yes, Viscount Sytry was it? We ran into him in the human world. He seemed perfectly fine despite the fact that he was unconscious and carried off by someone's familiars_. Mamon shook his head; it would never work. "I'll follow them, you go alert Master Dantalion about this."

"But we were _supposed_ to go to Lady Astaroth first."

Mamon sighed. Her voluptuous demands would have to wait.

* * *

A blood, red moon dyed her skin carmine as Eligos trudged up the steps of Baalberith's castle. Her body ached and her pace was slow and her wounds screamed at every step. One thought ran through her head: she had failed him, her new master. She clutched at her left arm, it still throbbed from where Sytry had hit her. _So the puppet could fight without any strings attached, could it?_, she asked herself acridly. She stepped awkwardly on a stair and almost tripped from the surge of pain that erupted in her arm. Luckily, she caught herself, just in time to crouch against the steps. She rested there, trying to cool her anger. As she was catching her breath, trying to forget the pain, she stared up at the moon and wished she had something to fling at it. She hated failing, she hated it worse than jealousy or anger. Something stung her eyes and fell down her cheek. She wiped it away furiously.

It was some time before she made it to the top of the staircase. At the top, she leant against the wall and shut her eyes. She would be strong now. She would be strong when she faced her master. She would not beg him to avenge her like that despicable nephilim, Gilles de Rais. She would demand that she avenge herself. Oh, how she wanted to see her master's lips curl into a smile, how she wanted him to whisper to her, "Well, done, my knight." How she wanted him to take her in his arms and tell her she was his favorite, his chosen candidate, his lover perhaps? But no. Baalberith had only ever laid a few fingers against her cheek, and even then he had been looking away, thinking of other things.

She growled. Enough resting. Enough thoughts. She flung open the doors and invited herself inside. The entryway was empty, save for the sheep. She was glad it was him, only a sheep in cook's clothing.

"My lady," he bowed to her. How hateful he sounded. She needed to hate something as well. It would make her stronger, strong enough to forget about the pain.

"Where is Master Baalberith?" She roared and watched as he shuddered at her tone.

"He is not here, my lady."

"What a shame," she pouted. "I would have liked to deliver the news of his nephew's death personally."

This made his head shoot up. He looked at her disbelievingly. It made her smile.

"No, y-you couldn't have!" The sheep stumbled over his words, a look of desperation pooling in his eyes. "Pl-please!" He implored her. Hopelessness drew over his head like a veil.

_Oh, this is a nice treat_, Eligos thought, _much better than anything this sheep has ever cooked up for me in his kitchen_.

"It was only a joke." She laughed, right to his face. "But I've found you out, Leonard." She kept on laughing. "It was you who delivered him to Astaroth, wasn't it?"

The sheep remained silent, his eyes now ones of relief and anger.

"You, traitor!" She pointed at him, but then the tension disappeared from her fingertips. She turned away. "Of course I would say that. But would you like me to let you in on a little secret?"

She waited for his answer. She didn't know why she was baiting him like this, leading him on. It was fun to torment someone with such little power over themselves, after all, but what was even more fun was to watch them go about their business, unaware of the strings that were leading them at every step. Every move he made had not been his own.

Baalberith had explained it to her. How she would fight Sytry and leave him within an inch of his life. She had complained at first, said she was capable of ending him, but he had merely tilted his head and chuckled.

_"No, that will only be the beginning." _

_"What do you mean?" _

_He looked away from her, to some far off place that only he could see. "The cook is rather fond of my nephew. That sheep will be the one that finds him after you're done with him. He'll try to take him away from here." _

_"Then let's kill him now."_

_Baalberith _tsked_. "And why should we do that, especially since he's such a competent chef. And pawn."_

"What are you planning, Eligos?" It was this Leonard's stern question that brought Eligos back to the present.

She flashed a grin back at him, the memory of her master still fresh in her mind. "It's already _been_ planned and followed through." The pain in her arm was all but a dull ache, the satisfaction of teasing Leonard, the sweetest medicine. "But I'm not the one who orchestrated it."

Leonard faced her with hatred in his eyes. She thought he looked so silly with such a severe expression. It didn't suit a sheep, or an animal for that matter.

"Shall I tell you then?" She held a hand to her mouth, to appear coquettish, to play along with the game. "We _wanted_ you to bring him to Astaroth, Leonard. We _knew_ you would."

The sheep glared.

"And we knew that you would also..." Yes, the look he was giving her was the perfect antidote. "Uh oh! I've said too much already!" She took on a cloying tone and felt as if she could almost skip again. "Well then, I'll be waiting for our dear king to return." Instead, she stepped away, off into the corridors of the castle to await her master.

She turned back once, relishing the look of shock in the sheep's eyes.

* * *

It wasn't the sort of dream Sytry usually had when he was knocked out.

It was a memory. He remembered how Solomon had removed the last of his wings. Those little nubs that had hung on his back as emblems of his shame. Solomon had whispered softly, told him, beautiful fallen angel, that he would no longer need them. And so he had asked Solomon to do it. Because Solomon was wise and did not judge. He remembered how the bones made a snapping noise as Solomon's hands pulled, he remembered how the blood pulsed and how the pain erupted. He remembered the sound of his screaming, how it had blocked out his ears for a while. He remembered other things, how it had almost been as bad as the _first_ time. But then the pain and the memories had ebbed away. Solomon held up two bloody, feathery, useless things and threw them into the fire. They watched as those things collapse to ashes. And then Sytry had laid his head in Solomon's lap and smelled Heaven in his arms.

* * *

Crosby observed the demon his familiars delivered. It was the beautiful one that he had called an eyesore and he couldn't help but feel disappointed. He had hoped it would have been the stronger one, the demon that had humiliated him in front of that boy, Solomon's replacement. But Crosby couldn't complain. This demon was special, after all. Its powers had been weakened and there was no way it would be able to recover any time soon.

He took it into his arms and carried it into the church, looking up into the empty cathedral, the high arched ceiling painted red in the candlelight. This place would only weaken the demon further. Crosby smiled. He'd be in no danger. In front of him stood a table. He laid the creature down, secured it with sacred ropes and, as an extra precaution, gagged it. He did not want to hear its silver tongue, lies from its velvet lips.

Crosby exhaled, taking a moment to appreciate the scene. The demon had not so much as opened its eyes and at first Crosby wondered if his familiars had killed it. But then he thought better of it.

He turned away from it, to the implements on the other table. Crosby had never been fond of doctors and so he had forgone the surgical tools. Perhaps other priests had used them when they had performed exorcisms, but this wasn't exactly an exorcism, and Crosby found the whole idea of using medical devices absolutely futile. He was a reverend, not a doctor. He'd use holy power to treat this infestation. Besides, things so directly related to science such as surgical tools had never held any interest to him. He was a man that believed in a higher power.

He returned to the demon resting on the table.

"Wake up!" He slapped it across the face. At once, its eyes snapped open, looking wildly around. It tried to move but its bonds were too tight. He watched it writhe, its back trying desperately to arch, the ropes giving no slack. A few moments later, its struggle died down. Another fluttering of disappointment wallowed in Crosby's chest. After the initial shock, the demon adopted a chilling glare. It did not seem scared, or even spiteful. If that was the way it would be, Crosby was sure he would not be able to relish this revenge as sweetly as he wanted to. _But he wanted to_. He wanted to punish this creature not just because it had played a part in his demise, but because it represented everything that he stood against. It was the Enemy, the banisher of heavenly light, the snake in the garden. It would lead humanity down the path of destruction.

He took out his cross and held it in front of the demon's face. It clenched its eyes, as if there was too much brightness in the room, and tried to turn away. Crosby moved the cross closer, so that it was barely touching the demon's cheek, and it struggled again, making a moaning sound in its throat.

"You don't like that, do you?" The demon looked at him and for a moment Crosby thought he saw into _its_ head, all the ways it wanted to kill him, to drag him down to Hell, to torture him the same he was torturing it now. Crosby shook his head. Was this what was reduced to? Torturing demons? His dreams of joining the church had once been so pure. He took the cross away.

The creature relaxed and Crosby let it, for a moment. Then he took out the next implement. For this one, he would need to open the gag. Just for a moment. Just to watch it squirm. He came near it with the bottle, watching how the demon waited with bated breath.

"You know what will happen next, don't you?"

The look in its eyes penetrated his soul.

Without warning, he ripped off the gag and forced its mouth open. Now it made sounds, unintelligible ones as he forced the vial of holy water between its teeth. It resisted, tried to bite him, but Crosby knew it couldn't win. He emptied the bottle and saw it gag, the water falling out of it mouth and burning its lips. It wriggled and tried to cough. Crosby waited for it to scream, but it only clenched its teeth together.

"It's not as effective as I would have hoped," Crosby sighed, putting the vial away and retying the gag, tight, without slack. He hovered over it and folded his arms. This demon certainly was a special case. It did not react as strongly to all of the usual techniques. Crosby tried to think. Was it because this particular demon was high-leveled? Perhaps, but maybe there was something else. He played idly with its hair as and he thought and was surprised to see it shudder. Now, that was _not_ the response he had been expecting. His hopes flew up. Did even demons feel indignity? Crosby certainly hoped so.

He turned his attention to its clothing. The creature wore the school uniform of the academy, a reminder of Crosby's former job. He frowned, toying with the fabric of the demon's clothing. "Imitating a human, are you?" He glowered. "Filth like you doesn't deserve such clothing." He ripped open the shirt. The buttons flew from their places, hitting the floor like tiny, ringing bells. The demon growled in its throat.

"What's this?"

There was a black band wrapped around the demon's chest. Crosby grabbed at it and the demon hissed through the cloth in its mouth. He pulled at it, but it was made from a far stronger material than the demon's other clothing. _How interesting,_ Crosby thought, remembering the rain, the carriage and the stranger:

_"My request is that you do not kill that demon," the other passenger had said. "In fact, you're sure to find something _far_ more interesting than killing it. Perhaps your rank as a priest will rise because of it." _

_"And what would that be?" Crosby's eyes narrowed, but his curiosity had piqued._

_"You'll know it when you see it."_

The fabric remained taught in his grip. "What are you trying to hide?" He hummed. It was wound around too tight. He'd have to cut it with something sharp. He let go of it and looked for the demon's reaction. It turned away from him, as if refusing to give him one. _How interesting indeed_.

He left the demon's side and returned with a knife in another moment. From his standpoint, he took a moment to appreciate the demon's fight against its bonds. It stared daggers at him and Crosby could nearly make out the little crackles of power as it tried to break free. _It won't work, your powers are too subdued here_, Crosby wanted to say, but he held back. He wanted to see the hope flee from the demon's eyes when it realized that it could not escape. That it was at the complete mercy of one of the humans it had once toyed with. That it would never be _free_ again.

He wanted to see the look of its defeat, almost as satisfying as Heaven itself.

* * *

Dantalion watched as William sipped up the rest of his soup, a million thoughts flowing through his head at once like a river with its dam broken.

"So you're not going to be leaving me any time soon?" William asked, placing the bowl on the little table beside his bed.

"Nope."

William pressed his lips together. He couldn't seem to think up a witty reply.

"Sytry came by earlier," he finally said. Again with Sytry. Dantalion wanted to roll his eyes.

"He said he was leaving. For good." William bowed his head so that Dantalion couldn't read his expression.

"Well, if all goes according to plan Sytry will take Baalberith's place as the new King of the West. He'd be too busy to be a candidate." _If all went according to plan.._. Dantalion seriously doubted it would. Even with Astaroth and Sytry combined, Baalberith had the most influence in Hell besides the Emperor. He was also the most cunning bastard Dantalion had ever met. He was probably two steps ahead of everyone, even now. Especially now.

"I see." William played with the bed sheets idly. There was something bothering him, and Dantalion had to bite his tongue not to ask what. He wondered why he was trying so hard to not show his concern. Maybe if he did ask, maybe if he did show concern, would William maybe...

_Tap, tap, tap!_

Something was hitting the window.

Dantalion whirled around. Amon flapped frantically, hitting the glass with his wing and trying to stay airborne. He quickly rose and opened the door for the creature. As soon as the bat flew in, Dantalion nocked it to the ground with his fist.

"You lazy, good for nothing—"

"Master!" It flurried on the ground. "ViscountSytryisintroubleandwewerecapturedbythatsl imyBaalberithandwerelockedupinhiscastlebutluckilys heepdudeletusoutalthoughIthinkhissoupsaretoosweet— " Amon blurted out, all at once, so that Dantalion was too dumbfounded to do anything but try to listen.

"Wait. What? Sytry? Baalberith? Something about soup?"

The bat nodded on the floor.

William also stood over the bat now, with a more reasonable expression. "Can you say that first part again?"

"Viscount Sytry was captured by familiars!" It cried. Then it flapped its way off the ground so that it was flying over William's head. "But more importantly, Master, Mamon and I were captured by Baalberith. We think he's cooking up something pretty nasty, considering how it was his chef who had to save us."

Dantalion didn't even want to get into that. "And where is Mamon now?"

"He's on the trail of the familiars."

Dantalion shook his head. It was just one mess after another with Sytry these days. He looked up just in time to see William pulling a boot over his stockinged foot.

"Where are you going?" Dantalion asked, exacerbated.

"Isn't it obvious?" He pulled the other boot on. "I'm going after Sytry." There was a look of determination in his eyes that Dantalion rarely saw outside of William's talk of success. When William was after something, he got it.

"Now?"

"Of course now. He's probably miles away by now."

Dantalion folded his arms and hummed. The last thing he wanted to do was go on a wild goose chase after that... _that._.. he couldn't even call Sytry a puppet anymore. Dantalion was still angry, about the plot to destroy the nephilim and Sytry's rude insults. But if William was so concerned he couldn't ignore it. As it was, William was making his way toward the door.

"Wait." He caught him by the arm. "Let's think this through first. We don't know where those familiars took him, or who they're working for. This might be a trap."

He could feel the way William relaxed, how his hand, that had been so eager to turn the doorknob, now fell to his side. "You're right, but..."

"In any case, we should wait for Mamon to get back. That way we'll at least know where they're keeping him."

William nodded and returned to the bed. He sat on it, refusing to take his boots off, a resolute look on his face. Dantalion resumed sitting in the chair.

"He looked so unhappy, but I didn't ask why," he heard William say as if to himself.

"You wouldn't have been able to change anything," Dantalion tried to reassure him, though he bit his lips when it came out wrong. "I mean, it was out of your control."

William shook his head, holding a hand up to his chest. "I just feel that I should have helped him more. He seemed so lonely when he came to see me." A flash of something invaded William's head. Something pretty resting on his lap, its hair as soft as kitten's fur, the smell of blood and burning feathers. This lonely sad feeling as something fell asleep on his lap. Then it was gone, a wisp of smoke from a dying candle wick. William held his head. Had that been déjà vu? But it had been so vivid, so real.

"Are you alright?" Dantalion asked.

"I'm fine." William shook it off. Still, the fact remained that Sytry was out there somewhere in terrible danger. He couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was happening as they spoke, which was another thing he would have to prove with science. This innate sense when someone close to him was in peril.

"Hey, Dantalion."

Dantalion looked up at him.

"Baalberith is Sytry's uncle right? I mean, they're related by blood, right?"

Dantalion nodded.

William stared pensively. "Is that what demons do? Do they just abandon their own flesh and blood as it suits them?"

Dantalion shrugged. "So far, it's only been Baalberith who's done that." _Among other things._

William looked straight at him. "If I went to Hell and demanded that Baalberith take Sytry back in, he'd have to right? He's one of the pillars, isn't he?"

"Err... maybe..." Then Dantalion shook his head. "But there's no way you're going there right now."

"Why not?"

"Baalberith is dangerous. He has legions of demons that follow him. You'd be lucky just to get a glimpse of the guy, especially now that there's a war going on."

William sighed. "Still, do you think it'll work at a safer time?"

Dantalion closed his eyes. "Again, I'm not too sure." _If there will ever be a safer time, that is._

William stood up suddenly. "In any case, before going after Sytry, we should ask for leave."

Dantalion blinked. Was this really happening? Had William really said that? Now, of all times?

"I'm also sick of hanging out in the infirmary." William stretched his arms. "I'm not even... _well_... sick." Without another word, they cleared out of the building, Amon following close behind.

The moon had risen and it lighted the courtyard with a silvery glow as they walked. Dantalion walked by William's side. Their feet crunched the leaves on the ground and for a while it was only the sound of that and the sweet plume of soil and crushed grass that filled their nostrils. If only it could go on like this forever, Dantalion thought, he and William walking side by side in a surreal landscape.

It reminded him of walking through the palace garden at night with Solomon.

_"But why at night? Wouldn't the flowers be more beautiful during the day?" Dantalion had complained at first. Solomon was a king now, and it seemed like he thought he could order everyone around._

_"I'm not here to see the flowers," Solomon smiled at him. Then something had cracked, a branch, a stone under foot, the feeling in Dantalion's chest._

_Solomon kissed him. It was slow and deep and Solomon's mouth tasted like honey, thick and sweet. He let himself surrender to it, let Solomon pluck his clothes off like flower petals. They moved together under the dogwood tree, the moonlight shining through the interstices of the branches. Solomon's arms were strong, his grip unwavering. And Dantalion thought how he never wanted it to end, Solomon's sweet whispers and the blossoms dyed by the silver moon and that feeling in his chest, an echo of a beating heart._

But it did not last. William walked up to the church and Dantalion waited just below the steps. There were some domains that even Dantalion could not trespass into, some gardens that were guarded by stoic sentinels, their arrows of light ready to pierce at any moment.

* * *

A lone candle lit the chapel when William entered. He followed its light and found Kevin there.

"Young Master?" The reverend rose. "Are you alright?"

William nodded. "I'm fine."

There was silence for a moment. William heard himself breathing and wondered, idly, if he could hear Kevin's breath as well. He strained to listen but couldn't hear a thing.

"Kevin?"

"Yes?"

"Will you grant me permission to leave the school grounds?"

Kevin stared at him skeptically and frowned. "Absolutely not."

"Why?" William raised his voice.

Kevin said nothing, but his lips were compressed in a thin line. He adopted that sad look, the look that William had always thought was unfair of him to use. When he looked at him this way, William couldn't find the words to question him or fight against him.

He had to look away. "But I have to go. I have reason to believe that one of the underclassmen was abducted."

"And who is this student?"

"Sytry Cartwright."

At the mention of the name, Kevin's expression grew severe. "Then it is a matter for the police."

William bit his lip. He could not win this. Not the way it was now. He looked away from Kevin, counted the pews in the church. With each second the ticked by, William could feel Sytry fall deeper and deeper into unhappiness. He wondered why he felt it but knew he did not like the sensation. "Please..." It was more of a whimper than a word.

Kevin frowned. "I was so worried when I found you today, Young Master. You were drifting in and out of consciousness and I thought..." Kevin touched his face, as if to confirmed that William was still there. That William was still William. "Please." Not a word but a whisper. "Please don't worry me like that again. I wouldn't be able to take it if something like that happened again." _I would die... or worse._

Suddenly, something came over Kevin's face and he winced.

"What is it?" William gasped.

Kevin shook it off. "Nothing. Just promise me you won't leave the school."

William sighed. It was as he suspected. There was no way he could win this.

* * *

Red bloomed from the thin red line where the knife had slit its skin, along with the fabric. Then, the black fabric had fallen away, opening up like a flower petal, bearing its fruit. The demon's chest was the color of porcelain, begging to be cracked. Crosby examined it with a critical eye, as one might inspect a fruit for bruises. Besides a purple welt forming on its lower chest, there was nothing too unusual about it. He refused to be disappointed again. There had to be something, the demon would not have acted so wildly if there wasn't, would it? Crosby dug his finger into the cut he had created, watched the demon wince and smeared the blood around. He was about to find something else to use, something sharper than his fingertips, when a thought struck him. Perhaps it wasn't the front he should have been inspecting.

The demon seemed to catch on as fast as he did. It had stopped struggling and now adopted an alluring look. It's blue eyes were fathomless, promising a sea of pleasure. Its bare chest flushed pink. Was it trying to entice him? Foolish, foolish demon. Crosby had already tasted the ambrosia of Heaven, he had no need for secular diversions. He held the knife, high over the demon's body, and sliced the bonds on one of its arms. A scream was born and died in its throat.

Crosby smiled, taking its arm and holding it down. Then he flipped it over and held the arm against its back. Its back... Two gaping holes stared back at Crosby, their appearances like bloody maws on otherwise perfect skin. He could make out white fragments of bone inside, bones that had once been part of something else.

_"You'll know it when you see it."_

Crosby smiled. He turned the demon over, careful to keep hold of its arm and intended to smirk at its face. Its eyes were turned away, however, refusing to look at him.

"Are you ashamed?" He asked it.

It still did not look at him.

"Because you should feel ashamed." He grabbed it by the chin with his free hand, so that it looked at him, so that it could _only_ look at him. His glasses caught the glare of the candlelight, reflecting like mirrors, hiding his eyes. "_Sinner_."

It gave him a hateful look, but its blue eyes could not hide its misery.

He let it go and hummed to himself. He had found out its secret. He had always been so good at finding things, digging for things. Breaking into that deepest section of the mine, or exposing students as demons, demons as fallen angels.

He reached into his robe and took out the crystal that hung just below his heart. Even now it still awed him, glinting phenomenally brilliant in the low light. "I had hoped not to use anything so holy with the likes of you, but since you're a special case..." He leaned down and cupped the demon's face with one hand. The crystal hung down as well, its point touching the demon's chest, right down the cut at the middle. "I can exorcise you to Heaven, fallen angel." That caught its attention. It's eyes changed, ever so slightly, from indignation to incredulity.

"But you will not have a _will_ of your own after that." He whispered to it, his tone had changed, soft as ashes, abrasive as sand. "You will be an agent of heaven, a mindless doll." _Now_ it looked frightened. It tried to shake its face out of his hand. It tried to say something through the cloth in its mouth.

"Of course, you don't have a choice in the matter." He felt it surge from under him and Crosby used all of his strength to hold down its arm. It struggled violently, the most Crosby had seen it flail the entire time. He could feel how even its veins shook, its rage uncoiled, its eyes deliriously wild. But Crosby braced for all its attempts to break free, held it down when it worked itself up. After some time, when the last remnants of its strength had finally died down, Crosby saw it. The look he had been waiting for. The demon's eyes had lost their vigor. It did not struggle anymore, it did not make a sound. He had defeated it. Yes, this would be the defining moment of his career. When he turned a demon into an angel.

He cut the bonds on its other hand and then tied both of its hands together. Then he forced it to rise to kneel. In this pose it looked like it was praying, its back open for display, and Crosby smirked at how appropriate it was. _ Yes, kneel before God and repent!_

The crystal gleamed as Crosby started the ritual.

Sytry's thoughts were not on the man in front of him, not on the words he chanted or the crystal that was now glowing around his neck. His thoughts were not on his back, so cruelly exposed to the air and the light. His thoughts were on simpler things. On memories. William calling after him to wait, Dantalion pushing him into the ground, Isaac asking him what demons dreamt of. Would those memories be erased along with his will? _No, not erased but... ahhhh!_ His back was on fire, the bones twitching. He could feel something ripping out of it, creaking, cracking, tearing through the flesh like sharp, bony fingers. _Something was growing_. He screamed. He could feel his thoughts slipping away, his _self_ slipping away. His mind had been ripped open, raw and bleeding. Soon it would be expunged.

Sytry wept silently.

He did not want to disappear.

* * *

"Master Dantalioooon!" The bat came screeching through the night, out of the darkness and into Dantalion's line of sight.

"Mamon!" Dantalion hadn't been waiting long on the church steps.

"A church outside of London!" The bat seemed out of breath.

"A church?" Dantalion quirked his eyebrow.

"That's where they've taken the viscount captive! There's this human that's got him. He's... it's not important! You have to go there now!"

Dantalion could feel his anxiety mounting. The situation was more dangerous than he had suspected. Still, a tiny part of him couldn't help but think it was what Sytry so righteously deserved.

"I can't leave."

Dantalion flung himself around. William was marching down the steps, a march that had less cheer than that of a pallbearer's. "Kevin isn't going to let me after what happened—Mamon!"

"Elector!" The bat squeaked.

He ran up to it. "Where's Sytry? Do you know what's going on?"

Dantalion listened to the bat's answer, no different than it had been moments ago.

"Then I-I..." William stammered. He had to save Sytry, but he could not disobey Kevin, he could not let Kevin give him that look again. He was torn. He turned.

"Dantalion, why don't you go?"

"No." The answer was more curt than he expected.

"No?" William repeated, dumbstruck.

Dantalion crossed his arms. "I'm here to protect _you_, remember. I don't care about anyone else."_ Not Sytry, definitely not him._

"How can you not care?" William demanded. The feeling in his chest was growing worse. "Aren't the two of you acquaintances? I know you two fight all the time but didn't you save him before? Why, all of a sudden..." His voice petered out. He hated getting emotional like this, but Dantalion... Dantalion had made him!

"He's a stuck up, selfish brat. He's better off dead, for all I care." He turned away.

"You're heartless!" He shouted.

"I don't need to have sympathy. I'm a de—"

"No, you're a bunch of atoms!" William cut in furiously. He gave him a look, so angry, so dismissive, that something in Dantalion withered away and died.

"Amon! No, Mamon! Lead me to where Sytry is." William stalked off with the bats flying in front of him.

"Wait! You're going? But you just said—"

William did not so much as look at him. They walked in silence, the leaves and branches snapping as they stamped away from the school, into the woods.

"It'll be hours before we get there at this pace." Dantalion said when he thought enough time had passed by.

"Then do you have a better suggestion?" William couldn't see straight. What would Kevin think? But the underclassman was William's responsibility, after all. And besides that, more important than that, Sytry was...

"Yes," Dantalion said. In one fluid motion, he picked William up and raced into the darkness.

William felt his anger subside at once. He felt like he was in a garden lit by moonlight, he could smell the fragrant blossoms, hear the leaves whisper to themselves. He felt Dantalion's arms around him, hanging on tightly, never wanting to let go. But it was different from the way Dantalion held him now, the ground flowing underneath with the speed of a river as Dantalion ran. No, this thing, whatever it was, felt like it was Dantalion who was in _his_ arms. William felt himself grow very warm very fast. He blushed, thankful that their speed made the night air practically whip at his face, blanketing the evidence.

His back was turned from the shaft of light that emitted from the school's chapel.


	6. Unanswered Questions with Uriel

The rush of cool air was tantalizing over William's skin. He felt it blow through his hair and send chills down his spine. His skin was littered with tiny goosebumps that he tried to rub off. When that didn't seem to work, he tried to tuck himself further into Dantalion's arms, which were warm to the point of temptation. _So, warm..._

William shook the thought out of his head. He was seriously not thinking those things now. Instead, he focused on Amon and Mamon, two black and white shapes scurrying fast ahead of them.

Another guilty thought started to forge its way into his head: breaking school rules was also rather tantalizing. He had always been the fastidious one when other students broke them, but now, now he could feel how liberating it was, like it was rekindling something that had burned out in his spirit—ugh! William frowned. Maybe something like _that_ was happening, but it was happening with less romantic, sappy language. He hadn't felt this alive in a very long time, _yes_, that was the phrase he had been looking for.

For a moment, he gave himself up to the rush of it.

But something else still tugged at his heart. He deliberately disobeyed Kevin, and those sad eyes would probably be there to greet him when he got back but... but... _he_ was the master in this situation, wasn't he? At the end of the day, or rather, school term, it was Kevin who answered to him and not the other way around.

_It's fine, it's fine, _he tried to tell himself. _Kevin will understand, if he ever finds out, that is. This _is_ an unconventional mode of travel, after all. I should get back before anyone notices._

He wanted to think there was a special gleam in his eye that hadn't been there before. He was amazing, a genius, and the perfect prefect. He'd make sure all students were accounted for by morning roll call. And nobody would know expect for—

William was almost launched out of Dantalion's arms as the other stumbled a rock.

"Watch it, will you?" William shouted, trying desperately to regain his equilibrium. He looked up and could tell Dantalion was smirking. William glowered, knocking him against the chest.

"Hey! What was that for?" Dantalion grit his teeth.

"Watch where you're go—ahh!" William shook again. Dantalion had almost tripped over another rock.

"I would be able to concentrate more if you stopped yelling. And hitting me." Dantalion said between clenched teeth.

William tried to fold his arms. It was difficult doing that and staying balanced in Dantalion's arms. Instead, he tried to look annoyed as possible. Dantalion couldn't look at his face, but William felt the message would come across. Somehow. Suddenly, a thought popped into his head.

"Couldn't you just fly there?"

"No."

"No?"

"Yep."

"But why?" William's mouth hung wide open.

"It's too cliché." Dantalion said under his breath.

"Cliché?" William gaped. "How would you know anything about clichés?"

"Being alive for thousands of years will do that to you."

There was a long awkward pause.

"If you want to know more about clichés, you should read more. I've never seen you study for literature class, let alone pick up a book."

"And I _do_ read. Some things."

William ignored the comment. "And what's so cliché about flying there and most likely getting there faster?"

"I _could _do that." Dantalion hummed his dissatisfaction. "But doesn't that just sound cliché?" He said, dragging out the final é. "Leaping through the air, carrying you bridal style, the moon silhouetting our figures. I'm not some roguish character from those gothic romances that are so popular these days!"

William rolled his eyes. So _that's_ what Dantalion read.

"_You_ would be someone who reads gothic romances." William had long ago dismissed such prose as mindless drivel created for desperate females _by_ desperate females. "You probably steal young woman out of their beds quoting tawdry lines from those novels. Is that how you get their souls or contracts or however you demons do it?" He'd need to study the demon world a bit more. The details were getting a bit rusty.

Dantalion was quiet for a bit, as if reminiscing about his adventures. "Well, I do get _something_."

"Beast!" William knocked him on the chest again.

He half wished he could have knocked Dantalion off his feet. Instead, the other only complained. Again.

"It's really hard to _avoid_ dropping you when you do things like that."

"So, are you admitting that you do want to drop me?"

"Keep going on like that and I'll just do it, no admitting necessary."

William growled.

Meanwhile, Mamon and Amon, who had been listening to the whole conversation, turned to each other.

"Do you think our dear Master is falling for the Elector?" Amon whispered, his eyes slight.

"He already fell for Solomon once." Mamon leaned closer.

"Oh ho ho, in more ways than one." Amon laughed a little too loudly.

"Hey, you two! What are you talking about up there?" A voice roared from behind them.

"Nothing, Master!" They both squeaked in unison.

Despite his objections to flying, William could tell Dantalion was making good time. They'd be there soon. Hopefully soon was soon enough.

* * *

Crosby smiled through the chanting. It was almost complete. Its wings had sprouted, skeletal things now, but they would seen be covered by soft, dove-like feathers soon.

As for the demon itself, Crosby wasn't too sure. It had closed its eyes, it did not look at him. It had only reacted when the bones came out of its back and now its head was bowed, its expression dark.

It will all be over soon, he wanted to tell it. Embrace Heaven, fallen angel. But these thoughts even surprised Crosby. Did he feel sorry for it? But he was doing it a _favor_.

His voice started to tremble. He tripped over a line in the chant. Enough thinking, he told himself. This is the last verse. He took on a portentous tone. He hardened his heart, harder than the crystal shining around his neck.

Just as he recited the last line, light spread through the cathedral. Crosby had to shield his eyes from its blinding intensity, but his heart filled with glee. He had made a demon ascend. He would doubtlessly ascend in his rank as well. He could get out of this place, go back to the school, preach the miracles of Heaven again!

He peeked through his fingers just to get a glimpse of it... of... the demon was still on the table. Its wings had not yet sprouted feathers. Crosby's confusion was interrupted by a voice.

"Ernest Crosby!" The voice boomed, echoing through the cathedral, through Crosby's bones. "I command you to stop this!"

He could not see where the voice was coming from. It seemed all around him, nowhere and everywhere at once. Was it an...?

"But, Your Grace," he started. His voice had lost its rigor, it sounded hollow. Scared. "I am simply following your will, the will of Heaven! I am converting one who would oppose you."

"You dare pick a fight with me, _human_?!" The voice bellowed. It shook Crosby to the core.

"No! I would do no such thing."

"Then leave this place, Ernest Crosby. And do not continue to use my power for such malefic deeds. What Heaven gives can be easily taken away."

"Y-yes, Your Grace." He bowed to it, whatever it was, and took off running. Still, he thought he might know what it was. Heaven had been watching! Crosby's heart leapt as he bounded over the church's steps and into the darkness. But Heaven had not approved.

What sort of place was Heaven, Crosby wondered, if they did not allow fallen angels into their ranks? If they let such angels fall in the first place? Then he shed the blasphemous thought. It didn't matter. The only thing that did was that Heaven was watching. He felt like he could preach a sermon, not one about the usual caveats against Hell; one about miracles and angels and light.

Of all the beautiful things that had once been in Crosby's life. Of the crystals in the deepest, darkest parts of the cave.

* * *

The angel Uriel descended, scattering the light that had followed his entrance. He looked around the old church and lamented its dilapidated state and its current utilization.

Sytry knelt on the altar, his hands and legs tied. Sytry, yes, it would be Sytry and not Cartwright now. Sytry like it had been long ago. With one spark of light, Uriel burnt all the bonds. Sytry slumped over and Uriel glimpsed at his face: his eyes were blank, all vestiges of personality diminished. Crosby had gone too far.

Ureil sighed. Whenever anyone obtained too much power, humans, demons, angels, they always went too far. He would need to delve into Sytry's mind and see if the demon's soul was still there. But Uriel hesitated. Demons were not like humans; they did not live multiple lives. He did not know what he would find if he went into a demon's soul, or if he would be able to get back out again. Regardless, he reached into the demon's chest, prepared to probe deep into the demon's mind. But, just as his hands slipped in, something sparked and crackled. The light came back into Sytry's eyes, but so did the darkness. Uriel braced himself just in time. A dark power rose around him, a tide of shadows, that shook the room. It could not reach Uriel, but he could feel it, agony and hatred and all the bitter emotions that hung around humans like shadows. It washed over him, then amassed around Sytry and was finally engrossed.

So, that was how a demon mended itself. Uriel warded off his feelings of repugnance.

Sytry rose from the table. He did look like a nightmare, Uriel thought, skeletal wings spread open, as if to sow despair. His eyes were blank, but not in the same way they had been before. This was a jaded emptiness, an emptiness that had rejected Heaven. He sat upon the altar as if he sat on a throne.

"Why did you save me?" It was more of an accusation than a question.

Uriel recovered, taking the situation in objectively, weighing the odds. "You would be a threat to the young master as an agent of heaven," he stated bluntly. Sytry glared at him but said nothing.

Uriel sighed, his tone becoming milder. "But also because William would miss you. Because I do not like to see William upset." He paused. "And because I knew you from long ago, when you were just a..."

"Don't talk about it!" Sytry jumped off the altar.

"...a child." Uriel smiled sadly.

In one fluid motion, Sytry grabbed hold of one of the skeletal wings protruding from his back and pulled at it. Uriel made to stop him, but he was too late. It ripped off, with a thunderous crack, snapping at the joint before it separated and was thrown away, clattering to the ground and turning to ash. He watched as Sytry keeled over in pain.

But it was the sound that made Uriel flinch. He remembered _it_, the humiliation and Michael's laughter. How there had been two wings and then how there was just one. Sytry's pain became his own. His heart fluttered in his chest. How easy it was to forget sometimes that he was just one wing away from the demon in front of him.

Sytry grabbed the other wing but this time Uriel was quick enough. He caught his arm and held it still.

"Why?" Sytry did not look up at him. His voice was soft and sad. A gash had formed where the previous wing had been, blood flowing down without sympathy.

"It must have hurt." Uriel remarked, using a tone he hardly used. The was the tone only reserved for miracles, for William, when he consoled him, before his young master had grown up and decided not to cry anymore.

"Of course it does, you idiot!" Sytry cried. His arm shook in Uriel's hand. "You're burning me!"

Uriel gasped and let go. Angry red marks in the outline of his hand had appeared on Sytry's wrist.

Sytry, meanwhile, clambered to his knees and held his arm. It throbbed, pain worse than all of Crosby's holy water. But the thing that really hurt, that he needed to remove as soon as possible was...

"That's not what I meant." Uriel said, kneeling next to him, careful not too get too close.

"Then what did you mean?" Sytry turned away, the words sharp and tainted with abhorrence.

"I meant," Uriel's tone was nearly a hush. "It must have hurt being separated from your home and everything you knew."

Uriel looked up. Shadows were gathered high in the rafters, but he thought he knew what star constellation shined above. He tried to picture Heaven, his home, the great billowing clouds, the fragrant flowers that blossomed eternally. But he couldn't. All he could picture was William's face. "From your family," was all he could think of saying.

"No," Sytry was still turned away, his tone deep and remorseless. "I wasn't separated from _all_ of my family."

He grabbed at the wing again, but this time the strength in his arm was gone. The tears fell ceaselessly from his eyes. The blood fell ceaselessly to the floor.

Uriel gave a sigh. "Allow me." His fingers dug into Sytry's back until he felt the place where the wing connected to bone. He pulled it out, quick and clean. Without sympathy.

Sytry bit back a scream. He shook, feeling as if all of the warmth in the church had suddenly rushed out the door. It _had_ rushed out of him. Before the pain could come creeping back, before his back contorted with agony, before he felt the insatiable need to cover those hideous, shameful marks, there was always a coldness.

Then he felt his skin burn again. Uriel started to cauterize the wound with his fingertips.

"No!" He turned around to face him. "Why do you bother? You know they'll only open again."

Uriel's hand fell to his side. He was right. For some reason, the wound always opened, a hole that was a reminder. An anathema. A curse. He said nothing instead, let the silence wrap them up and watched Sytry wrap a black band around his chest. Over the wounds. Hiding them. And their shame.

They were silent for a long time. The church had grown dark, all the candles blown out. Moonlight glistened through the stained glass, but it was a fragmented light, unable to light the shadows, and left only puddles of silverly blue on the ground.

"The young master—er, I mean, William will be here soon," Uriel spoke out into the dark.

Sytry tied the band around his chest together, tight, like a corset. He did not face Uriel when he spoke. "You've always had a soft spot for children, haven't you, Uriel? Whether they're angels, or humans or even demons."

This caught the angel off guard. He hesitated, unable to find an answer.

Sytry went on, not waiting for a response. "If Heaven attacked Hell, would you be able to kill all the children there?" It was a cold question. It garnered a cold reply.

"There is a difference between _demons_ and _children_."

"Is there?" Sytry turned to him, grinning with melancholy. "And who decided that difference in the first place? Heaven? Hell? Humans?"

"It makes little sense to argue over it." Uriel could feel the conversation moving into unwelcome territories. "Children are _innocent_."

Sytry smirked luridly. "If I made William lose his innocence, would you still love him as dearly, Uriel? If he became like Solomon, would you hurt him again?"

Uriel clenched his hand. "The young master will always be the young master," he bit back, but he could tell how Sytry was gouging his emotions, making his temper rise. Making him lose his composure.

Sytry turned around again, satisfied with the angel's reaction. He stared at the pools of light on the floor. The little pieces looked like glass, like someone had shattered the window from the outside and hadn't bothered to clean up the evidence. They had just left the pieces on the floor. Sharp pieces that were too dangerous to pick up by hand.

"Except when you make him ascend." A reply out of the darkness, but Uriel could not tell if it was from Sytry's mouth, the shadows that surrounded him, or the pitch that surrounded his own heart.

"I..." Uriel could not find the words.

"You were wrong, Uriel," Sytry turned to him, his face incomprehensible where the light did not touch it. "Some children are _not_ innocent."

Uriel felt the tiniest spark of power gather on the palm of his hand. Enough of this. He did not have to take this from Sytry. Was he not grateful? That he had just saved his soul, never mind his life? Uriel could have easily turned a blind eye to what Crosby had done to him, could have easily urged Crosby to do more.

But where the light _did_ touch Sytry he looked like he was in pain. Like he was waiting for an answer that Uriel could not give him, that no one could give him. Uriel let go of the power, let it dissipate like his resentment.

"Why did you save me, Uriel?" It was the same question, but he could not give the same answer. "Why did you save me now and not _back then_? Back when I was innocent?"

And Uriel knew he could give no answers because there weren't any. Any good ones. That Heaven simply turned a blind eye sometimes. That all the angels had been focused on other matters. But also because there were some questions better left unanswered.

"How dare you come now, Uriel!" Sytry's voice rang through the ceiling. The reverberations were like an animal's, one cornered and caged, that would bite at anything. Regardless if it was friend or foe or an opaque force inbetween. Uriel bit his lip. Sytry's semblance to an animal disturbed him.

"I-I could have you ascend," Uriel found himself saying. "So that your soul and mind were in tact. I could do it."

Sytry did not answer. Instead he turned away and held out his hand. At that moment there was a rush of power, a whirling gust of things Uriel did not recognize, and suddenly it was Viscount Sytry that stood before him in full regalia. He was not the broken creature Uriel had found, tied to the altar. The figure hunched over, its black bleeding. This was the kind of demon Heaven was afraid of. His great, white cape fluttered behind him and for a moment it looked like two, perfectly composed wings.

Uriel watched in awe, too shocked to say another word.

"No. I don't want to go there now." Sytry finally said. "There are some things I must do." He lowered his head. "As a demon."

Uriel smiled to himself. "The young master will be here soon," he repeated for the last time.

Sytry hardly heard him. There was a flash of light and Uriel was gone. He wondered, idly, why the angel had become so attached to William, but he shook off the thought. There was no need to wonder about that.

The doors to the church flung open a few seconds later. In the entryway stood William. He looked like he had been up all night, like he had fretted all those hours over underclassmen who did not behave no matter how many times they were threatened with detention. But he also looked relieved. He did not look like Solomon, who always knew how a situation would turn out before it began. No, this was William Twining, a human whose whose fate was inextricably tied to demons and angels.

"Sytryyy!" William called from the entrance and rushed down the aisle. "Huh? You're alright. I-I mean, thank goodness you're alright."

Sytry smiled bitterly at the last words.

"Yes, I'm fine." It sounded more like the truth than anything had in a long time.

"Ah," William looked around. "There isn't anyone else here," he said, looking around. Then he took on a haunted look. "You didn't kill that guy, did you?"

"No, he ran away." Sytry was sure to look as devious as possible. "Although he won't be using any familiars for a while."

William did not ask him to elaborate, his face too stricken by the insinuation.

"It's stuffy in here," Sytry complained to him. "Let's go outside."

The sky was already tinged a light, purple hue when they walked out of the church. It would be dawn soon. Mamon and Amon were flying around in the light, brisk air outside. Dantalion was also there, leaning against the church's steps.

Sytry cocked an eyebrow. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Dantalion crossed his arms. "I'm not here because of _you_. William insisted." Dantalion turned his head to the side, but Sytry caught a hint of the reddish tinge creeping onto Dantalion's face. He was sure the coming dawn couldn't be blamed for it.

Sytry turned away from the blushing demon to William. "Thank you for coming."

William was also starting to grow rather red. "Well, I couldn't just leave you to the mercy of humans. Y-you're my responsibility after all. As an underclassman."

Sytry took a moment to appreciate the scene. William and Dantalion, refusing to look at him and at each other. Had something happened on the way here?, he wondered.

He laughed, for the first time in what felt like a very long while.

"What are you laughing at?"

"What are you laughing at?!," they both said in unison.

"Nothing," he shook his head. "It's just, if I was still a candidate, I'd think I was losing at the moment."

William and Dantalion both stood shocked still for a moment. He saw the bats snickering in the background. _So something _was_ going on..._

"A-anyway," William began. "Let's get out of here. Let's go back to school, Sytry." He grabbed his arm but Sytry did not let up.

"I'm not going back William."

"Why not?" William's hand weakened. His green absinthe eyes faltered.

"I need to go back to Hell." William looked at him. The dawn burned his hair a strange, pearly mix of lavender and the color of spring flowers. William found his breath leaving him.

"Why don't you just stay here?" He persisted, his voice growing thin. "Why can't you just forget about your uncle and wars and Hell and everything?"

Sytry's eyes narrowed. "You ask _why_ a lot, don't you, William?"

"Of course I do! I'm a realist after all. I need answers."

Sytry smiled again. "Then you should understand. I need to find answers too."

"Then, we'll go back to school." This time William grabbed his wrist forcibly. It wasn't enough to make Sytry move, but he felt the strain that William had to put into it. How he really, desperately wanted him to stay.

Sytry turned to Dantalion, his wrist still captive. The other demon looked disinterested in the scene. "You better watch over him, nephilim. If anything happens, I'll come out of Hell and finally put an end to you."

"Hmph." Dantalion gave a fearless grin. "You wouldn't last two seconds against me."

"You're not leaving are you?" William's eyes were fraught with concern.

Sytry bowed. "Thank you for your consideration, Elector."

"Sytry..." William let his hands drop to his side. Felt himself shake, his fist balling up. "Fine! Leave! I'm happy to get rid of you anyway." He had wanted the demons to leave, after all. He had told himself, every night before he went to bed, that his life would be so much better without demons around. Then, something passed over him. He imagined his life devoid of Dantalion, Camio, Sytry. Why? Why did it make him so sad all of a sudden. Sytry had been right. He did ask a lot of questions. Especially to himself.

"But don't die." He added as an after thought.

Sytry looked up at him. The sun was rising behind him and it painted his pale skin and hair the colors of a burning lake. It reminded William of a painting he had seen, the buildings of London ablaze, fire reflected in water with a maddening, dazzling brilliance, oranges and yellows and purples and blue hues, watercolors and oils running together, real and unreal. Then Sytry turned away from him, faced the blazing sun with an expression that he could not see.

"Goodbye, William." Sytry opened a circle in the air, the sun in the background deteriorating, the gateway vacuous and dark against its light. He looked over his shoulder. "If you're fortunate, we'll never meet again."

Then he was gone. The circle disappeared, the sun's rays caught William's eyes and he had to look down.

"Dantalion?"

"Yes?" The question was softer than he thought it would be.

"Let's go back now."

* * *

The King of the West strode passed the darkness and into his throne room. Then he paused, taking a moment to appreciate the sight.

Eligos sat curled upon his throne and a smile curled on his lips.

"My lord, you're back," she said with an air of ennui. "And what detained you in the human world for so long?"

He idly considered if she was drunk, but then remembered how her face had pouted, how her nose had turned up ever so slightly when he had offered her a glass of spiced wine. She hadn't so much as touched it.

"A beautiful sight," he said, his voice a low tremble of thunder compared to hers.

A frown swam on her lips. She refused to look at him, playing with her fingernails. "And what sort of sight was that, if I may ask, my lord?"

He approached her, still relishing the memories. "I wouldn't know. It did not happen. There was an unexpected guest."

Her face took on a strained look as she tried to make sense of his words. She stopped playing with her fingernails. Her expression grew tired.

"Your Majesty, Astaroth is planning her attack," she said instead. "Your traitorous nephew at her side." She suddenly leapt from the throne, her breasts just inches from touching him. "Allow me to lead the offense. If we start now, we can meet her on the plains."

He smiled. "Are you so eager for battle, Eligos?" He hovered over her. Everything about him was gigantic and ominous. It made her shiver. "Or is there something else you're eager for?"

"Y-yes, my lord." She could grow dizzy like this.

At once he tore off her jacket. She was exposed in front of him and she shook, her chest heavy with anticipation. He leaned in close, enveloping her senses. Cold steel, he smelled like, and the blood of murder.

"It seems my traitorous nephew has already marked you," he said.

She looked at her arm, the bruise an angry purple blemish. "H-how?" She suddenly felt cold, the heat had drained from her. "How did you know?"

He grabbed her arm, twisted where the bruise was. She wanted to scream. "I know where all my pawns are."

She bowed her head, her hair falling below her shoulders, covering her breasts. "I-I would be your knight, m-my lord."

He clenched harder. "But I have no need of knights." She felt him take her chin and suddenly his mouth was on her, a rough, painful parody of a kiss. He tasted like ashes, the scorched feathers of a burning plunge. Of all the hate in Hell and in humans and in the darkest, deepest parts of herself. She wanted to pull away but he had her. He had her. And she knew that if she did not pull away she would die.

It was over in another moment. She gasped for air, her lungs screaming and looked at him. He looked like he had tasted something that did not agree with him. And nothing more.

"I-I..." She tried to say, but he still had her arm. He bent it back.

This time she screamed. It echoed through the hall, into her ears until her throat was dry and rasping. Then, he flung her onto the ground and stepped on her arm, crushing it with his boot. She had no voice left with to scream.

"Run home to Beezlebuth, _pawn_. You are no longer needed in this game."

* * *

William stood in front of his Latin class, his first class of the day, stumbling on the lines.

_"N-nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse o-oculis meis vidi in a-ampu... err... lla pendere, et cum...um... illi pueri di-dicerent... er..."_

He was tired. He hadn't slept the entire night, and now that exhaustion was showing.

The instructor shook his head. "Twining, you're usually so astute. Return to your seat."

William sank back into his chair. What he wanted more than anything was to crawl into his bed, but that was impossible. Twice he found himself dozing off in class and it was hard to snap himself out of it.

He also had a hard time concentrating in history class. He shook his head. It was usually one of his favorites.

"Don't you think you were born in the wrong time, William?" Isaac's voice broke through his delusions.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the Age of Enlightenment, the Age of Reason. You should have been born a hundred years ago when everyone thought all questions could be answered. Not _now_."

William sighed.

_You ask _why_ a lot, don't you, William_.

Had that been a question? But Sytry hadn't been looking for an answer.

He continued on in this sort of daze. His classes passed by without him raising his hand, without him answering one question, because all the questions were buzzing around in his head and making it hard for him to—

"Hey, watch where you're going!" He bumped into someone.

He looked up and all the air escaped his lungs. Dantalion was there.

Why did he find himself losing his breath whenever he was with Dantalion? He couldn't be that sensitive, could he? Surely, a night carousing around half of England did not give grounds for him to feel this way. And yet Dantalion came near and he felt like he was drowning without water.

"Are you alright?" He placed a hand on William's shoulder.

"I just..." He said, pulling out of the his grasp. "Don't make my life any more difficult than it already is," he commanded.

"Who's making it difficult?" Dantalion demanded.

"You demons think you can come around here, raise Hell, and then just leave me. I... I..." He was breathing hard.

"William, calm down." Now, both of Dantalion's hands were on his shoulders. He found it so repulsive, but at the same time... at the same time...

He broke free and ran. Dantalion called after him but he did not hear it. He kept on running, not sure where he was going and yet knowing indefinitely that he had to get away. His feet led him to the chapel.

"Kevin?" He called, throwing open the doors.

"Oh, are you looking for Reverend Cecil?" A white-haired boy asked. He held a stack of prayer books in his hands.

"Elliot Eden?" William had almost forgotten about him. And the trouble he caused. But then again, it wasn't Elliot who could be blamed for that.

"I'm glad you remember my name," Elliot smiled demurely. "I haven't been here for long and sometimes it feels like everyone's forgotten about me." He hugged the books to his chest.

"Why are you in the church?" William asked.

"I want to be a reverend." He smiled at William. "Like my father and his father before him." Elliot placed the books in the little holders on the pews. "I've been helping out Reverend Cecil everyday after school."

_Kevin..._

"Where is he?"

"Reverend Cecil?" Elliot blinked and looked around. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen him today." He continued to slip the books into the holders. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."

"It's fine." William sighed. "Well, then." He made to leave.

"-ss you."

William turned around. "What was that?"

"Bless you, William Twining." Elliot bowed. "See, I'm practicing." His eyes gleamed.

"Yes. Well, then. Bless you, too."

The words came out strangely. William supposed he had actually meant them.

* * *

Astaroth was waiting for Sytry when he returned.

"I heard you did not rest well in the human world," she said by way of greeting. They were on the outskirts of her territory. Someone had set up a table, lavishly decorated with the finest china and silverware and she sat at it, daintily sipping tea. Lamia was also there, balancing a tray of the finest hors d'oeuvres in her arms. The scene did not match against the dry, dead landscape it was placed in.

"I will fight him," Sytry said by way of answer.

Her eyebrows rose. She placed the tea cup on its plate, a clicking sound eliciting from it. The wind howled in the distance.

"Why?" Astaroth asked keenly.

He did not bother repeating her. "Because I have to."

She leaned back, his lips twisting ever so slightly. "Will it solve your avuncular problems if you do? Would everything be better if you did?"

He pressed his lips together. He could not guess at her intentions. Instead, she motioned for him to sit and he accepted. Lamia served him tea and a morsel of something that Sytry did not look at.

"You can't kill him, Sytry." Astaroth spoke from across the table, her expression cool despite the steam rising up from the tea cup she had just sipped. "He's too powerful. Too many humans have murder and blasphemy in their hearts these days, and that gives him power."

Sytry clasped his hands on the perfectly pressed tablecloth. The porcelain clinked as he touched it. "I don't want to kill him."

Astaroth titled her head a little. "And how do you propose we defeat him?"

He stared off into the scenery beyond her. It was dull and lifeless, a few dead tress littering the landscape. The wind had bent them long ago so that now they looked like they were forever bowing to a tyrannical master.

"I think I know what he wants." He was still staring at the barren plain. "If comes to it, we can use that against him."

She sighed. "One thing he wants is to subjugate the nephilim," she said wistfully, her voice like the ancient moan of wind through a catacomb. "I won't allow that."

So Astaroth had heard. It didn't surprise him. Had she heard about the other things as well? Eligos' defeat, Dantalion's rage, Crosby... Uriel?

"No, there's something else he wants."

She frowned at him. Her yellow eyes were such a stark contrast to her dark skin. It was jarring, but at the same time exhilarating. Were those the eyes she had when she was human? Or had Hell changed them?

"My focus is the nephilim," she said. "I cannot let Baalberith have his way with them." She faced him, all the wistfulness gone. "I must conquer him before that happens."

"I don't want the nephilim to be annihilated either," Sytry said. His hands were shaking.

"Then will you promise me, in exchange for my aid, will you promise to protect them?"

He could not tear his eyes away from the landscape, from the swathe of gray that was the sky, from the stark ground that would never sprout grass or flowers or living things. It made him incredibly sad for some reason. Was this the landscape his uncle saw when he fell? So lifeless and devoid of anything, so different from the precious memories of Heaven. It must have hurt. More than the fall, more than the flames, it must have hurt seeing this. This land of exile where all his hope had turned to weeds and festered.

He turned back to Astaroth. "I will help you." She nodded resolutely and then turned over to Lamia, who was helping herself to some of the morsels on the tray.

"I think of the nephilim as my children, too, you see." She said, her look pensive, her thoughts far beyond the wasteland.

Sytry nodded. He could not say anything more. He did not doubt a mother's love for her child.

* * *

Leonard stirred the simmering soup carefully. He was very careful not to burn it. He had heard Eligos' screams ripping through the entire castle and it should have satisfied him to know how she was finally given her last desserts. He should have relished in the rumors that took place shortly after, that Eligos had left, that the king himself had rejected her. Leonard's chest should have filled with hope at that. But it did not; It frightened him.

He took out another pot from the pantry. He would cook an unremarkable dinner for his king tonight. The tea was already on the boil. He would pour it into a stein and leave the sugar cubes behind.

Just as he opened the lid of the pot, a black thing flew out. This frightened Leonard all the more. "Amon!" He shouted, just as the pot fell raucously to the floor.

"Sheep-butler!" The bat squeaked.

"Wh-what are you doing here?"

The bat gave him an annoyed look. "You asked me to come here, didn't you?"

"Oh, right." The fright was doing things to his brain. "How is Lord Sytry?"

"Well..." the bat began, leaning sideways in the air, "it's kind of a long story, but the short answer is he's fine. The last I saw of him he was returning to Hell."

Leonard let himself catch his breath. At least that was good news.

"Now, then," The bat edged its ear to his face. "One piece of gossip deserves another. I will be seeing Lady Astaroth after this."

Crafty creature, Leonard thought. His hands shook again. He knelt down to pick up the pot, to take his mind off of the treason he was committing.

"M-my master," he began. "Has denounced Eligos."

The bat gasped. It froze in midair. "But why would he do something like that?"

_Because he is smarter than all of us_, Leonard wanted to say. Instead, he urged Amon. "Don't just stay here! Report to Lady Astaroth at once."

The bat nodded and flipped in midair. With a poof it was gone.

Leonard took a few moments to compose himself and then resumed cooking. He was just putting the finishing touches on the meal when he heard a demon enter the kitchen.

"It's almost read—" He faced it, expecting it to be one of the maids that brought food to the king's table. Instead he was standing face to face with one of Baalberith's personal messengers.

"His Majesty has summoned you." It said ominously from behind its fangs and horns.

Leonard was led to the throne room. The demon in front of him marched ominously, and Leonard found himself adopting the same rhythm. Yes, his king was definitely smarter than them all. The demon flung open the doors and bade Leonard enter. He traversed the threshold and then the door was shut from behind. There was no escape now. Leonard gulped. In front of him, King Baalberith sat on his throne.

"I was delighted to hear you made some friends," Baalberith chuckled. He rose from the throne and snapped his fingers. A long, large trunk was carried into the room on the backs of two hulking demons.

"But no good deed goes unpunished, Leonard." Baalberith opened the trunk and ordered the demons to empty it. The trunk's contents fell to the floor, clambering down, weapons of every kind: swords, poniards, halberds, and battle-axes.

Leonard's breath hitched. So Baalberith wanted to hack him to pieces. Leonard wanted desperately to return to his kitchen, to bid farewell to his spices and herbs. He wanted to open the pantries wide and take down the jar of honey from the top shelf so that his master would be able to reach it after he was gone. He wondered if anyone would miss him. Oh, that goat would certainly gloat.

"You seem frightened, Leonard." Baalberith broke him out of his thoughts and he looked up. The king had a grin on his face, a cool, easy grin that gave Leonard reason to shudder. No, perhaps being hacked to bits was too quick and clean for Baalberith. There was something else.

Baalberith spoke again, as if reading Leonard's mind, the smile still on his lips. "You know my nephew will come marching here with his armies soon."

_No._

"I want you to help me plan his welcome back."

_Please, not that._

"Now, Leonard." Baalberith spread his hand, gesturing to the weapons. "Choose which one I'll greet him with."

Leonard fell to the ground, bowing before his king, his temple touching the floor. "Please, Your Majesty." Tears started to form around his eyes. "Please, just kill me instead."

He could hear Baalberith click his tongue. "But I'll need you for the invasion, Leonard. Besides, it'd be a waste of a perfectly good chef." Baalberith's voice suddenly changed, all the playfulness gone from it. "Now off your feet, animal, and choose."

Leonard shakily rose. He looked over the weapons and saw a dozen visions of his master, the one who was always asking him for sweets, being impaled, eviscerated, beheaded. No, he couldn't choose. He held his tongue, trembling at all the thoughts rushing through his head. Baalberith seemed to notice his anxiety and walked over to him.

"There is one _other_ thing you could choose."

Baalberith was above him now, his grin and compassionless eyes filled Leonard's vision.

"_Each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard_." Baalberith recited the lines without mercy. "I believe you know how it goes. The brave man does it with a sword. But what are you, Leonard?"

Leonard sobbed. He was not brave, he had never been brave.

"Now choose!"

Leonard pointed at it, the cruelest of all weapons.

"You chose well." Baalberith walked to his side, a whisper in his ear more menacing than all the blades of steel in Hell.

What had he done? What had _he_ done? Leonard dropped to his knees again.

This time, Baalberith did not tell him to get up.

_TBC...?_


	7. Assault with Astaroth

Michael remembered her: _The incessant knocking at his door, the bowed head of lavender and blue. "Please... Your Grace..." she would begin, her wings preened with sorrow. "My son is... Please... save him..." And then, always, like she could hold on no longer, the eruption of her sobs. _

_Why she had gone to him he could never tell. Just because he was _the highest _did not mean he could help all the little, lost angels in the world_. _"Ah, but it's too late for that now." He would start, walking up to her, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible, his red eyes gleaming. "All of Heaven laments your loss, my dear. But," his eyes turned severe, his tone darkened, red glowered into scarlet. "You should have kept a better eye on him."_

_And then she would start with tears again. "How could I have known that... _my own_...that _he_ would..." And Michael would feel a headache coming on. _

_Finally, one day, her pleading became too loud. Her voice, pounding in his ears matched the pain pounding in his head._

_"Please your Grace. There must be something-"_

_"Shut up!" he sibilated._

_"Y-your Grace?" She looked up at him from behind a tear soaked face; total confusion waxed her features. Like she hadn't noticed how irritated he became. Like she could not see the lines of anger on his face. His sympathy immediately dissipated. _

_"Please, I beg of you-"_

_"Enough!" He held his hand above her head, as if to silence her, as if to slap her. "We threw your brother down, and he dragged your son down." His wrist was so, so close to snapping. "But if you don't shut up, I'll throw you down myself!" _

_That shut her up. Her lips quivered, the tears stopped flowing. She looked as if she _had_ really been slapped, the shock enveloping her face like the impact of a palm. _

_Michael took a deep breath, rested the tension in his wrist. _

_"There... Isn't this silence nice?" He asked her. He twirled around, admiring the beautiful light fixtures, the frescoes that adorned the pearly white walls. _This is Heaven, _he thought_. Peace and order.

_She was still standing by the doorway when he looked back. "Now, now," he said. "Don't look like that. You will have other children, of course. Little boys and girls who will not be led astray." _Perfect, Heavenly soldiers.

_He placed an arm around her shoulder. "But the best thing you can do now is sleep. Sleep away your sadness, my dear. When you wake up, it will all seem like a dream." _

He smiled to himself. She had taken his advice.

Now it was Uriel who knocked at his door, who bowed his dark hair before him, one wing folded in respect.

"You wanted to see me," he said.

"Don't you think it's fascinating, Uriel?" Michael toyed with his chess pieces not bothering to look at him. "How, after a while, even your opponent's pieces are as much use to you as your own?"

Uriel did not answer him. Michael sighed. He found Uriel very annoying these days. All that time in the human world had softened him, but not in the way Michael thought it would. This was not a malleable softness, a softness that Michael could use to his advantage. This softness was one that took pity on humans. _And_ demons...

"It's nice to know you're still performing miracles," Michael began. "Even to the _degenerates_."

Uriel looked away. Bitterly.

"I should punish you, Uriel." Michael inspected the chess piece in his hand. A black bishop. "You know aiding the enemy is strictly forbidden. Would you like to join your little friend in Hell? You _are_ halfway there, after all."

He looked over to Uriel whose features matched an internal anguish. Michael thought the look suited him quite well.

"No," Michael shook his head. "I didn't think so. Besides," he titled back on the chair. "You actually saved me the trouble of interrupting that stupid human myself. We can't have the fallen getting back into Heaven... even if a few of them are such good boys."

"Why?" Uriel asked, stepping out of his complacence. "Why did he fall in the first place? He did nothing wrong. Why was no one aware that-"

Michael dropped the bishop. It clattered on the board, disturbing the other pieces and Uriel's speech.

"Oh, we were most definitely aware," he said, twirling his hair in his fingers. "You could even say we were more than just _aware_."

Uriel's gasp sounded pleasurable to Michael's ears. He thought he would very much like to hear it again. The chair clicked back into place.

"Since it's such an old secret, I suppose there would be no harm in telling you now." He rose.

Michael loved Uriel's expression. The ambivalence of it. He wanted to know but he didn't. Oh, Michael would make sure he _knew_.

"I'm sure you're well aware of that despicable Baalberith's influence in Hell. How he could single-handedly start a rebellion against Heaven."

"Yes." Uriel nodded, his eyes sharp.

"But we can't have that," Michael clicked his tongue. "We have so much on our hands already. And, after all..." He turned shrewdly to Uriel. "Most demons are perfectly happy in their domain; they don't want Heaven at all. All they want is a little taste."

There was that gasp again, ringing true and clear like bells throughout the room.

"And so we gave Baalberith the opportunity and watched him take it." Michael perched himself on the couch, its cushions stuffed with down, and crossed his legs. " Of course, we acknowledge that some sacrifices had to be made, but what is a pawn compared to a bishop?"

"You're cruel," Uriel hissed under his teeth.

"Now, now, don't look like that." _Yes, yes. Keep looking like that. _"It worked, after all. That depraved demon's concerned with more sybaritic matters these days."

"I..." Uriel searched fruitlessly for a response.

"Ah, speaking of such illustrious characters," Michael filled his voice with sarcasm. "Isn't there a war going on in Hell? I do hope those demons destroy each other. It would thankfully save us the trouble, don't you think?"

He searched Uriel's expression for a hint of pity but found none.

"Is that why you called me here?" Uriel's tone and expression had reverted back to one of seriousness.

"Not quite." Michael turned his attention to the mirror on the far right wall. "Actually, I think there's something _else_ you'd be very interested in seeing."

* * *

William left the church feeling uneasy. He wasn't sure if Kevin's absence was a blessing, as Elliot put it, or a curse. William desperately wanted to see him, but at the same time, he dreaded it. Did Kevin know that he had left the school without his permission? Even more so, was that why he wasn't in the church, or even the school grounds? William sighed. There was no use worrying over it now, anyway. He walked across the lawn, feeling his unease weigh down on his stomach. At least it was a free period now. He could use it to relax, perhaps see what Isaac was up to. Isaac was indeed a very odd boy; he always had that odd way of putting things in to perspective in spite of his total naiveté in any given situation. William couldn't help but like him for that.

As he walked, looking for Isaac, he admired the perfectly kept lawn, how there was not a weed to be found. He wanted his life to be like that: everything perfectly in order without any blemishes. Perhaps it had been like that long ago but...

That's when it hit him. Something didn't feel right, but he couldn't quite pin down what it was. He stopped in his tracks and looked across the field. Everything seemed perfectly normal: students standing around during free period, the sky a happy, cheery blue and the leaves starting to turn color. Yes, perfectly normal. He continued to walk, thinking that perhaps the lack of sleep was finally making him hallucinate.

He listened to his shoes crunch the grass. Just the night before, he had walked this same path with Dantalion, albeit in the opposite direction. But last night, it had been so quiet, just the two of them, the moon shining down and everything silver. Even Dantalion had gleamed silver for an instant and, in that moment, William thought he smelled flowers, certain flowers that bloomed only in the moonlight of secret gardens, even though there was nothing like that here. Then he shook himself out of it. Why did Dantalion keep persistently crawling back into his head? It was like he had set up residence there, like he had in the human world, and kicked all the important thoughts out. But still, William could not explain or admit to himself why he wanted to sink back into Dantalion's arms, let himself get carried away into the darkness.

"Stupid, stupid Dantalion." He said to himself and then stopped immediately. Had anyone heard that? He looked around, but it was still the same scene as moments before, the crowds of students standing, the sky pure, the autumnal leaves. And a perfect, absolute silence.

William gulped. This silence made him feel uneasy. He tried to listen closly to the conversations his classmates were having, but he couldn't hear anything. He also noticed that nobody was _moving_.

This scared him. He tried to run up to a crowd to see what was the matter, but a strange force blocked him and sent him hurtling backwards. The breath was knocked out of him as he landed on the grass.

"What is going on here!?" He shouted, this time not afraid, actually hoping, someone would hear him.

Nothing happened.

He tried to run at it, whatever it was, again. Again, he was pushed back to the ground.

"Newton's third law," he found himself saying when he finally caught his breath. The force blocking him was proportionate to the force he used to try to get out of it. He sat on the ground, pinching his cheeks together.

So it seemed he was trapped. He shrugged off the feeling of complete uselessness and started checking his surroundings for weak spots. He figured out that he was in a transparent, dome-like structure the size of about fifty paces in either direction. And that there were no weak spots.

William held his head in his hands. He _had_ wanted a break, but this was not what he had in mind. Immediately, he tried banging on the structure, trying to figure out what it was made of.

"It won't work." A voice said from behind him.

He flung around. Dantalion was there, his arms folded, sitting on the ground as if in deep meditation.

"What are you doing here?" His voice sounded almost defensive.

"I noticed something was off and followed it here. I should have known it had something to do with you."

William approached him. "This, whatever it is—"

"A barrier."

"Yes, well, whatever it is, I didn't do it."

"I didn't think you did."

He could tell Dantalion was deeply contemplating something.

"Spit it out." William commanded.

"What?"

"Whatever it is you're thinking."

Dantalion gave him a rye grin. "Always so sharp." He rose, patting his hands on his hips. "This is a barrier and a pretty powerful one at that. Most magical barriers specialize in keeping something out, but this one is keeping us in."

"Why? Who made it?"

"I don't know."

William shook his head. "Can't you just break out of it?"

Dantalion shot a flame from his hand. It hit the _barrier's_ wall and bounced back. So Newton's third law worked with magic too? The demon conjured up a shield just in time to cancel out the attack.

"As I said before," Dantalion said, dusting himself off. "It's a pretty powerful one."

William frowned. So they were stuck together.

"I..." William started to say. He couldn't think of the words and he cursed himself for not being able to compose a coherent sentence. What was so special about Dantalion? Did the demon have some kind of magical aura that made his mind complete mush? Or was it something else? Something even more frightening than...

"So you think I'm _difficult_?" Dantalion was facing away from him, but William thought he knew what kind of expression he had.

"Not you specifically," William said. _Don't make my life anymore difficult than it already is_. He could hardly remember the thoughts rushing through his mind when said that.

"Demons in general make my life difficult." _ It's rather hard to prove their existence for one..._

"Believe me, the feeling's mutual." Came Dantalion's quick reply.

William skewed his face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dantalion didn't bother answering. Instead, he turned to him, a stridently serious look in his eyes. "If I left right now, would your life be less difficult, William? Would you be happier?"

William felt his mouth go dry.

"I... I... This has nothing to do with getting us out of here."

"I just want an answer. Yes or no."

So he couldn't get out of it. William looked at the ground. The perfectly trimmed grass without a blemish. How it had all seemed so easy long ago, moments ago. And now. Now, he couldn't make sense of anything.

"Yes, my life would be less difficult," he blurted out. "But I wouldn't be any happier."

Dantalion's expression eased. He looked reflective. _ Relieved,_ even.

"That's..." he started, scratching his head, trying to figure out what to say. "That's good to know."

"I..." William began. He still felt terrible about not being able to help Sytry. He still felt terrible about being useless. He hated feeling useless. People like William were not meant to be useless. His birth into a noble family had already signified that he would make a difference for his country. But somewhere, somehow, it had gone wrong. He could not stop his estate from going bankrupt, he could not stop the demons that had fell into his life, and he could not escape this barrier. He was actually grateful for the fact that it was Dantalion who was with him. He didn't feel quite so useless when Dantalion was around.

"I'm happy, but only because..." He pictured them all, Dantalion, Sytry, Camio and Kevin. Why couldn't things just stay that way? Why did people always have to leave? Where had Kevin gone? And Camio? And why did Sytry have to go?

William shook his head.

He felt like saying thank you to Dantalion, but didn't know exactly why. Instead, he opened his mouth, unsure of what he would say.

"Dantalion, I..."

Dantalion looked at him, his eyes opening wide.

"I..."

Something hit his head before he could finish.

* * *

The wasteland shined brilliantly on the path to his uncle's castle. The sky was streaked with red and for a moment Sytry remembered the sunsets in the human world with all their gushing and blending and swirling of color. But there was only one color here: red. It permeated the soil on the ground and dyed the landscape a rusted vermillion. The wind had picked up the dust from their march and it swirled around them, specters that would watch their battle impassively.

He rode on a skeletal horse, Lady Astaroth close by his side and a host of demons behind him.

The moment was advantageous. Amon had interrupted their tea party, shouting about Eligos' banishment. Astaroth's eyes had blazed and as she rose she said _the time was now_. _To mobilize, to strike_. Almost immediately the table cloth was swept away, Lamia wrapping it and tying around her back. "Give 'em hell, Ash!" She said, running in the direction of her home. And so they marched on. He could make out the spires of his uncle's residence already, spears piercing the sky in impious insurrection. Turning to Astaroth, he tried to gauge her for a directive, a direction, but her face was focused straight ahead. She would give him no hints. It was _his_ battle, after all.

They went over a hill and he saw the first of his uncle's defensive guard, demons with skull helmets and heavy, cantankerous shields. He ordered his army to halt, and Astaroth did the same. General Behemoth broke from the crowd to go over the terms of battle with one of his uncle's representatives.

"He will meet us in battle, Your Majesty," said Behemoth when he returned. "If we are victorious, he will step down from his position as the Western King."

"And what are his demands if we should not?" Astaroth's tone was stiff, the tone of a queen, a commander.

Behemoth was quiet for a moment. "The complete subjugation of the nephilim under your protection."

Astaroth nodded, her eyes betraying not a hint of surprise. "Very well. We shall battle on those terms. And Behemoth." He looked to her. "You may sit this one out if you wish. I know how the two of you are friends."

Behemoth smiled. "No need to worry, Your Majesty. There will be no hard feelings between us."

He made to go back. "Wait!" Sytry called after him. "What did he say about me?"

"My apologies, Lord Sytry," Behemoth frowned. "You were not mentioned in the terms."

Sytry faced the ground. "Does he mean to kill me then?"

Astaroth urged her mount to his side. "Do not worry, Sytry. He will lose. Eligos has left his side and her armies with her."

"Very well, Behemoth," Sytry called.

Behemoth bowed and returned to the representative. He was back in a moment, returning to his position in the ranks.

They stood, each faction, very still. The silence was deafening, but Sytry dared not move. He tried to think of all the years he had been under his uncle's control, but he couldn't. All of it seemed like blurs, lost in the dust swirling around them. What he thought about was William and Dantalion and Camio. About the human world and the school and his many followers. And how badly he wanted a cookie that instant.

Something whirred in the distance. It was the most subtle sound, but it was discernible through the great silence. He turned to see what it was at the same moment that an arrow came racing, grazing his cheek and whirling past, leaving a trail of blood.

He held his face for a moment, the blood rushing to his head, his eyes smarting. So his uncle really did mean to kill him. Had he given his armies an incentive, the one to land the finishing blow would be granted power unimaginable? He could just picture his uncle announcing a reward for the first to strike his nephew, he could imagine how he was standing on his balcony, his coat pure black underneath the blazing chandeliers. _Long live King Baalberith! Death to the nephilim and the traitor! _His armies roared below. Swords and spears raised and demonic faces full of hate, and evil and wretchedness. And then his uncle smiling, but not really smiling, his face pensive and unabsorbed. Indifferent. Like _that day_. No emotion on his face as he tore at feathers and broke bone. But it was his eyes. Eyes that reflected horror and agony and showed nothing in return. A void. He fell first in those eyes.

Sytry reached for his sword and held it steady in his hand. He felt it, its alloy warm and inviolable. Astaroth was saying something but there was a buzzing noise in his ears and he couldn't hear her. Instead, he raised the sword, let it catch the glimpse of the red sky, shining like blood, and then charged to meet the opposite side.

Flaming arrows lashed across the sky and rained down as he rushed headlong. A few demons at his side were struck down. But he went on, one of the first to break the heavy shields of the enemy guards. At once, his side rushed into the opening, swamped on either side by hulking demons who used their shields to bat his soldiers off their mounts. He saw his enemies clambering to take him down and struck at their necks. His soldiers followed form, piercing through the enemy's throats.

All was chaotic for a while, a brutal and bloody mess. The enemy pushed them back and they pushed harder, breaking further into their ranks. Astaroth was a further ways down, her mount, a two headed lion, mauling anything that came face to faces with it. Her expression was fierce, her tawny eyes piercing like daggers, her scimitar, curved like a crescent moon, easily slicing throw limbs and spear head alike.

They were advancing through the guard. He could make out the defenses on his uncle's castle now, the archers holding their arrows steady as his army and Astaroth's became enmeshed with theirs. Styry even recognized a few of the demons standing on the castle's steps, his uncle's staunch supporters. But where was...?

Something whirling and black was hurled at him and Sytry ducked down just in time for the shield to whiz passed him. _That_ was close. He recovered, only for a hulking demon to rush at him, its arms thicker than his horse's neck. It grabbed his mount in one instant, its fist crushing vertebrae. Sytry jumped off just in time for the horse to be reduced to a pile of bone. Now, he was on the ground, feeling utterly defenseless given his short stature, and that demon was coming at him. He held on to his sword and lashed out into the crowd, felt something connect with his swing and the force of its explosion.

Something hit him from behind and he closed his eyes. Another moment that hulking demon was on top of him, had his throat in one hand, squeezing gruelingly. He struggled for a moment, his hands clawing violently at its wrists. Then it lifted him up, holding him at arm's length. The crowd around them stopped for a moment in awe, or was it envy? Here was the prize, to be presented to the king, to signify his victory and dominion.

He couldn't lose!

His vision was growing darker, but from this position, he could make out the castle. Dark figures waiting on the steps. What were they waiting for? _Who_ were they waiting for? He had to know, so he used his feet to push the demon's chest. It recoiled a little, not letting him go. He swung again, using its shock to his advantage. Another hit and he was let free. He fell to the ground, chocking and coughing, but just conscious enough to grab for his sword.

The demon came at him again, its imposing hand ready to crush his skull this time. He rolled over just as its hand reached down, then he sent his sword upward, impaling the demon in the abdomen. It roared putridly and slunk down, dissolving into ashes before it hit the ground.

He lay there for a moment, catching his breath. The sky was growing more brilliant, a red that absorbed the blood of the battlefield. Some of that blood was his own. He snapped to his feet a second after, the crowd roaring around him, hoofbeats and the clank of metal and the screams of death. He wiped the sweat from his face and his hand came back black and bloody.

Astaroth was at his side in another moment, fending off the thinning crowd of guards.

"The second wave is rushing in from the castle," she shouted above the noise. "I'll intercept them and cut them off on the right. Take some of my nephilim and meet us in the middle. Behemoth will finish the rest of them here."

Sytry nodded. He could picture her strategy, cutting off a section of the unit, surrounding them until they were in a deathtrap.

Without another word her lion leapt over the crowd, crushing anything unfortunate enough to get caught under its paws.

He turned around and gathered the rest of his forces and hers. The nephilim, of course, were humanoid, and eyed him wearily. Even now, they were hesitant to drop off what they were doing and follow him.

"Is Her Highness really advancing toward the second wave already?" one asked.

He nodded, not sure how he should respond. It had not been long ago when he was on the other side, one who discriminated against them. "We'll cut them off before they can rejoin the forces here." He narrowed his eyes, mustering the most commanding voice possible.

Some of them sheathed their swords, but still others lingered. He turned around. _Let them linger. Let them get cut up by those huge monstrous shields, stupid nephilim_. He bit his lip. Even now, _his_ influence infected his mind.

Wiping away the thoughts, he rushed to meet Astaroth, eyeing the castle steps as he ran. The black figures were ascending the staircase for a better view, but Sytry knew. He knew, somewhere on those steps, _he_ was watching.

* * *

Dantalion's eyes had opened wide as the hole formed. He rose to his feet in another instant, but he wasn't fast enough to stop the demon from hitting William in the back of the head.

The demon burst into ashes by the time William hit the ground, Dantalion striking it square between the eyes.

"Are you okay?" Dantalion shouted.

William held the back of his head as he pushed himself off the ground. "I-I'm okay."

Before he could say another word, another demon with a sharp beak surfaced from the portal, making a beeline for him.

"Get behind me!" Dantalion cried. William was quick to scramble to his feet. The demon split open just before it could take a bite out of him.

"What's going on?" He asked as Dantalion conjured up a shield. More were coming out of the portal, horned beasts, things that looked vaguely human and nightmares that William had never imagined.

Dantalion couldn't answer, preoccupied with destroying as many as he could before the next stream arrived. William crouched behind him. They were most definitely trapped now. He watched as Dantalion sent a huge spider bursting into flames, its burning legs just inches from his face.

"We have to get out of here," William urged. Dantalion's attacks kept hitting and the demons kept pouring out. He didn't know how long Dantalion could last, but he knew it couldn't be for long. Everything had a limit, a breaking point.

"I know," the demon said, shooting a minotaur just before it could strike down its club. "But how?"

William observed the scene. They were still inside the barrier, but...

A shadow-like monster dropped out of the portal, plopping to the ground. It was virtually featureless, a black blob that seemed to move with wicked precision. It rushed at them, evading Dantalion's strikes with vicious, serpentine movements.

"Shit!" He cursed. The thing would be on top of them in another second.

"Dantalion! Aim at the portal!" William called from behind.

"But—!" He began but he couldn't stop himself. The flare hit the portal and for an instant it seemed like it was absorbed, rippling into the pith of shadows. Then the portal started to warp and deteriorate. There was a cracking sound like glass and the barrier broke around them.

"Good thinking..." Dantalion found himself saying under his breath. He didn't bother trying to figure out how it worked.

That's when he remembered the shadow. He didn't see it in front of him. Where had it gone?

He turned around.

William was standing there, holding his side, blood quickly dying the fabric of his clothes red. The shadow hovered over him, preparing to strike again.

"Williaaaam!"

* * *

"Young Masteeer!" Uriel shouted as the glass displayed a demon slicing the human with Solomon's soul.

Michael smiled, in spite of the fact that things were not quite going as he planned. He had crafted a barrier to trap the human boy and that annoying demon. This was part of Uriel's punishment, because Michael very badly wanted to see what would happen if the two were trapped together, outside the binds of time. How Uriel would react. Hadn't Solomon also favored this demon above the rest?

But this, Michael thought, this was better than expected. The portal to the demon world hadn't been his planning, but it worked out perfectly. Now, Michael could just sit back as Solomon's soul ascended once again to Heaven. He wouldn't even have to lift a finger.

Blood flowed down from where the creature cut into flesh. It prepared to strike again, but just as it lowered its scythe-like shadows, it burst into flames. Michael narrowed his eyes. In either case, it would not be long now: the human was losing a lot of blood. He spared a glance at Uriel's expression. Absolute agony. Yes, this was a most superb punishment.

Uriel rose to his feet. "I have to go back there."

"No, no. When was the last time we spent time together?" Michael shook his head. "Besides, you should be here when Solomon's soul comes."

Uriel's face contorted in pain. Michael frowned. There was only one other time that Michael had seen such a look on his face. It made him a little jealous.

"You will stay here, Uriel." Michael's tone was low and deep. His voice echoed through the room and the doors clicked their locks by his magic. He placed a barrier over the room, one much stronger than the one he had casted in the human world, this one only he could break.

Uriel looked around hopelessly.

"Yes, isn't this better? Just the two of us," Michael relaxed his tone. He patted the seat next to him. "Come here, Uriel. Come watch with me. It truly is a momentous occasion! Civil war rages in Hell and Solomon will be joining us soon. This will be a great victory for Heaven, and we hardly had to do anything!"

Uriel did not move, distraught.

"Get over here!"

Slowly, shakily, he moved.

"There, that's good." He snaked his arms around Uriel's shoulders and whispered in his ear. "We'll have to keep Solomon's soul here, once he comes. If you're a good boy, I'll make you the one in charge of guarding it. Now, then, how does that sound?"

The other angel looked truly miserable. In the mirror, the demon Dantalion held the dying human in his arms.

"Do you wish that was you, Uriel? Do you wish to hold that boy?"

Uriel's head shot up, his attention on the mirror. He looked for just a second, just enough to see it, before Michael covered his eyes, held his head to his chest.

"But isn't this much more pleasant, Uriel? Here, you needn't worry about silly things like humans or their mortality." He stroked his hair. "Just forget about your time spent in the human world and stay here."

_Stay with me, Uriel_.

_Forget everything else and stay here._

* * *

Astaroth's plan had worked, but at a terrible price. The second wave was all but vanquished, but the troops at Sytry's side were thinning. There was only a few of them now, fighting off demons with their swords, with the limited powers they had as nephilim, with anything they could—even their bare hands. They were only one push away from his uncle's castle, but it was a push that Sytry's forces could not make.

The nephilim glared at him as he tried to cut his way toward Astaroth. He couldn't think of what to say to them, so he said nothing. He tried to forget about their looks of bad faith as he tore down the opposing demons with his sword. His magic would need to be saved. For later.

He regrouped with Astaroth just in time to see her slice at a demon-bird's wing, the feathers enveloping her like black ashes.

"Astaroth!" He called over.

She quickly eliminated the demon and strode to him. Her lion was behind her, mauling at anything that so much as glanced at her.

"Where are the rest?" She asked, eyeing the remainder of his troops.

He looked away from her, just enough so that she got the point.

"I see." Her eyes lost their sparkling gold for a moment. They glimmered brown, the brown of mud from an ancient river, the brown of children playing on its banks, the brown of a queen who had dearly loved her people. Hatshepsut's eyes. Then they were golden again, fierce and fiery. A demon's eyes.

"Come with me." She led him. "We'll make a break for the castle."

"Already?" He asked. The castle loomed over them, the color of lacquer against the red sky. A section of the opposing army blocked their path, but it was withered down from her forces. Soon, there would be an opening.

"Wait for the right moment." Astaroth whispered beside him.

He waited. Then he felt _something_, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as that something rushed at him from the back. Before he could turn, the lion leapt up from behind them. It tore through the strip of soliders, it's gigantic paws crushing, its tail batting away anything that got too close.

"Now!" Astaroth shouted. She charged into the crowd and Sytry followed her. They rushed, taking advantage of the confusion her lion caused. They were in it deep now, and Sytry flung his sword, not know what it would hit. Astaroth's movements were far more deliberate, but not even she was certain when the onslaught would end. They kept running forward, going against the current of demons who tried to impale them with spears and brands. One caught the skin of his arm, but he kept running, feeling the gash open. He couldn't be so sloppy anymore. He flung his sword around, hitting demons and running through their ashes.

Then they broke free from the crowd and ran toward the castle. Only a few demons blocked their path now, but Astaroth cut them down without looking back. Sytry felt the rush of it, his legs sprinting to keep up with her. This feeling. It was a rush. He felt as if he wasn't running but flying, over the ground, his speed accelerating, nothing in his way. He had almost forgotten how it felt like to fly, not with magic, but with... A rush of wind in his face and the feeling of infinity.

Astaroth was almost at the staircase now, the great imposing staircase that Sytry had once ascended like a prince, like a puppet returning to its master. _No more_, he thought. If he must walk up those stairs again, he would do it for himself.

She scaled up the staircase and he followed. No demons were there to greet them and Sytry wondered if they joined the battle or were watching from someplace high above. Probably they were watching, and that realization made him feel something omninous. They reached the first landing and stood still for a moment.

A black shadow stood at the top of the staircase, a figure stark and imposing. The Western King, Great Duke of Hell, was clapping.

"I must thank you, Grand Duchess Astaroth. I haven't been entertained like that in quite a while." Even his smile was pernicious.

"The pleasure's mine," Astaroth said. "I haven't had a battle like that in years. Millenniums."

Baalberith descended the staircase, his boots clicking on the steps as if counting the seconds down. "But the real battle's only just begun, hasn't it?" He only looked at Astaroth.

She turned to Sytry. "I'll take on Baalberith."

"No! You can't! That's my fight." He tried to step forward but she blocked him.

"I know what I'm doing." She winked, eyes sparkling. "Don't think I won't leave any for you."

Sytry stepped down. Still, his uncle looked only at Astaroth.

"Well then, King Baalberith. I hope you don't mind a traditional fight." She held her scimitar above her.

"Not at all," Baalberith chuckled, drawing his own sword. It glinted, cold steel, harsh and lethal.

They stood as equals for a second, as queen and king, south and west, nephilim and pure demon. Sytry felt the surging of their powers, the crackle in the atmosphere that surrounded them. Both were strong, both were rightful rulers of the demon world. They had clawed their ways to the top by falling down here and they would go on, two flames brightly burning in the dark, until either of them extinguished the other.

He didn't know what it was but, at that moment, something snapped.

At once, they rushed at each other, two dancers meeting metal instead of hands. Astaroth guarded his attacks, tried to push him further up the stairs. Baalberith, sidestepped in a lethargic fashion, his sword batting away Astaroth's attempts to get an advantage. He was just playing with her.

The song of their swords excited Astaroth, down to her veins. She used the strength in her arm to bring down her scimitar on Baalberith's shoulder. He blocked and their swords became attached. She didn't move in on the blade, instead disengaging it. She couldn't take any more risks.

She stepped carefully when he approached her. He used his thrusts to his advantage, poking past where she was likely to defend. Twice she snapped her hips back as the blade got too close.

As she pushed more and more, as he held her back again and again, Astaroth realized that she was only barely peaking at his true strength. There was something infinitely dark inside of him, a power threatening to spill out and poison everything it touched. For the first time in that battle, Astaroth was scared. She shivered in spite of the heat. He was so unlike the nephilim she led; at least with them, Astaroth could sometimes see a glimmer of their humanity. With him, there was none of it. He looked at her as if looking at a stain on his coat. With not disdain but apathy.

He swung at her face, a rather sloppy move that was easy for her to block—and that should have alerted her. She caught him and their swords rang as they connected with each other. Then he pushed, but it was too late. She felt their swords lock and she pushed on, holding the pose with all her might. Suddenly, he let go, the feeling of his sword disappeared, and she swooped down from the force she put into it, bowing down to her knees and slipping on the steps.

Baalberith shook his head. "That's not like you, Grand Duchess."

She breathed heavily, trying to regain her composure. From this position she felt like a dog, bowing to him. Her knees ached painfully from where she had hit them on the stair.

"You were always so sly," she said. She reached for her scimitar, but felt the point of his blade on the back of her neck.

"Lady Astaroth!" Sytry shouted.

She gritted her teeth. How embarrassing. And she was having so much fun, but the bastard was too crafty. "Haven't you heard of playing fair?"

"Now, Astaroth," he said. She felt the sword leave her neck and hit her chin. She was forced to look up at him, at his wily grin. "We didn't get here because we played fair, did we?"

She smiled bitterly. "No, no we didn't." She felt the sword puncture her chin as she moved her mouth. From behind her, she heard footsteps approaching and didn't—couldn't—turn around. Baalberith's eyes narrowed on her. The sword returned to the back of her neck, forcing her to face the ground again.

_No, _she wanted to shout_. Don't get too close!_

Sytry came to her side.

"Stop this, uncle!" He shouted.

The sword left her neck. She knew what would happen next. The bastard would attack him. She seized the opportunity with her scimitar in hand, rising and intending to deflect his sword before it...

The sword was not aimed for Sytry. It was aimed for her. She left herself completely defenseless as he thrust it into her, just below her lower left rib. Gasping, she broke away from him, descending the stairs backwards.

She slipped on one of the steps and braced herself for the ground. Instead, she felt someone catch her. She looked up, and saw Sytry was there.

Above them, Baalberith chuckled. Something sparked in the palm of his hand. "Go ahead, Astaroth. Call for him."

She held her chest, feeling the first sensations of a searing pain. What was on that sword? She looked around for it but couldn't find it. Still, the thing in Baalberith's hand sparked.

Was it magic? When she had tried to push forward he had simply let it dissolve. Her eyes smarted at the realization.

"You bastard!" She chocked on blood. The magic was in her system now. It made her feel dizzy. "I could—" Blood gushed from her mouth.

"Yes, call for him, Astaroth. He is perhaps one of the few demons in Hell who can best me."

"Dantalioooon!" She yelled. A little black bat disappeared out of the corner of her eye. Seconds later it was back, tripping over its words on how Dantalion was occupied fending off a horde of demons and protecting the Elector.

"And let me guess," she said, wiping her chin, the pain growing worse. "Those demons are yours."

Baalberith's eyes shined.

"You sent a portion of your army during a time of war to distract one guy?" Astaroth smiled. "You are pathetic, King Ba—" She coughed up blood. Sytry held on tight to her, making sure she wouldn't stumble again.

"Call off your armies, Astaroth. You are no longer fit for battle," Baalberith said.

She shook her head and rose. Sytry tried to hold on to her but she held him back. "I can still fight you." She gripped onto the scimitar tightly. Then, without warning, she lashed out at him. He was too quick, jumping back to the next step before her hit could land.

With one surge of his power, he knocked the sword out of her hand. It clattered on the stairs and the pain erupted in her side again. She held on to the railings, breathing heavily. Styry stepped back.

"Run home, Astaroth. You are no match for the power of pure demons." He walked past her.

Finally, achingly, Baalberith looked away from her and to his nephew. The slant of his eyes matched the curve of his scar, and a memory of a pain and shot through Sytry's spine. He felt his breath leave him.

"Well done, Grand Duchess Astaroth." He said more to himself than her. "I leant you a doll and you've returned with a general."

Shadows swirled in his hand and formed the shape of a sword. He approached Sytry, the sword glinting in the red light.

"So you've returned?" His uncle said. "In order to kill me and take my throne?" His face was perfectly composed.

"No." The sword in Sytry's hands shook. If Astaroth couldn't defeat him with steel, what could he do? He threw it down, heard its dissonance as it clattered to the ground. He was defenseless in front of Baalberith and somehow it felt like he had always been that way.

"Then what is it that you want?" The flat side of Baalberith's sword touched his cheek. The coolness of it abated the pain from where the arrow had sliced him earlier.

"Answers." Sytry said. He did not move, not even as the sword cut flesh, as the mark on his cheek was joined by another. "Why do you want to destroy the nephilim?"

The sword left his cheek and traveled to his lips.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes." It drew blood.

"Because they are _inferior_." It was a callous reply. Baalberith played with the sword, hovering the point close to his neck, his chest, his eyes. "Pure demons were once angels, but nephilim were nothing but _human_. You shouldn't alloy yourself with things so impure."

Sytry frowned.

"But that wasn't the question you wanted to ask me, was it?" His uncle held the sword in front of him. "Ask me, Sytry." Baalberith said, the sword perfectly positioned to thrust into his chest.

"Why did you reject me?"

The sword thrust in. Before it hit his chest, it evaporated into a black mist. Baalberith continued to lean forward in spite of it, until he was holding onto Sytry's chest, pressing him up against the railings.

"Because," his face was deathly close now. Sytry could feel the heat coming off of it—and the coldness. "I knew you would come back."

Sytry didn't know when it started, but he was shaking.

"You rejected Heaven and bid farewell to the human world. Where else is there but here?" The whispers hung on the shell of his ear, hot and heavy, with nowhere to go but in his head.

"Forget about Hell, Sytry. Forget about Heaven. Just stay here. With me." His uncle gathered him in his arms.

Sytry did not fight it.

"Would you reject _me_, Sytry?" The words were soft, a tone he barely remembered. Somewhere, deep in his memory, his uncle had used that tone. Somewhere far, far away. In another time, a man had used that tone, picking flowers in a vast field where they always bloomed, holding them above his eyes so that his vision filled with colors of every kind and his ears only heard the man's laughter, laughter with only light in it. He remembered tossing the petals into the wind, watching them twirl around and the man holding his hand. Kindness and warmth. He looked up. The man was smiling, petals scattered on his wings like feathers.

Then his uncle left him, like a breeze on a windless day, like the touch of someone dear, her eyes shining softly against a blue, peerless sky. Blackness filled his vision.

Sytry sprung up just as Baalberith released a stream of shadows. He flew through the air, moving evasively to try to escape the stream as it followed him. His own beams barely made any difference as he launched them, still weak from his battle with Eligos. He clenched his fist; he wouldn't be able to win this with his strength.

He turned awkwardly and the shadows latched onto his leg. It was a searing pain, as if his skin was being ripped away by the magic. He screamed and reached down, using his own hands to tear it off. His palms burned just touching it, like he was touching acid, but it came off and he flung it below.

Shaking his hands, the palms searing, he scanned over the castle looking for his uncle. He wasn't on the castle's stairs.

The realization made Sytry's hair stand on end. Like when Astaroth's lion had leapt, something crept up from behind. But this time Sytry wasn't rushing forward. He was falling back, back to _him_. Hands clasped his throat like a necklace, an ivory chocker, a chain made of teeth.

"Did it hurt?" Baalberith asked, his guttural tone sounding above the clang of battle, the howl of the wind. "When I rejected you?"

The words hung heavily, thick in the air like the sound of thunder, a current of electricity. Sytry closed his eyes, remembered the empty throne, the feeling of abandonment, like severing wings, ripping feathers asunder, watching them fall hopelessly, irrevocably, to the ground.

"It felt like_ falling_," he said opening his eyes, feeling the warm, familiar fingers at his throat. They felt so light now, so soft, as if they were holding something eternally delicate and precious.

The fingertips moved to his jaw, forced him to turn around, to look above.

_No._

"Welcome back," his uncle said. He moved in. Hopelessly, irrevocably _close_.

_No. _

There was a place in Sytry that only Baalberith could reach. A place that still tasted like Heaven.

_NO. _

But Heaven was not closer than this.

* * *

Dantalion quickly dispatched the demon and rushed to William's side. He was still standing but that was all Dantalion could see. His face had grown pale, the look of shock still locked in his eyes. His legs suddenly gave way.

"William!" Dantalion caught him before he fell.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw another surge of demons streaming from a new portal.

"William," he shouted again. The boy did not respond. He turned around just in time to see the demons charge at him. He sent up his shields, blocking their jagged fangs and ripping claws.

One snake-like one dove over his shields and tried to attack him from behind. He flung around just in time to send a burst of power straight through its body, sure to keep hold of William the whole time. Then he faced the onslaught, his shields just barely holding on. He wondered how much longer he would be able to hold them off.

He looked over William. His face had gone stark white, the blood now covering half his shirt. But the worst part was his eyes. Those green eyes that had once been so full of life were growing darker.

"Hold on, William!" He shouted. He needed to get away from here. His eyes flung around the scene, looking for an exit. Time was still frozen, despite the barrier braking. Demons continued to pour out from the portal, their black shapes like leeches. Dantalion held William close. He tried to think, but the pressure was pounding his head.

Perhaps... perhaps that would work.

He called up a shield, one that wrapped all around him. He wouldn't be able to use offensive magic inside it, but it would keep the demons out. Then, he waited, cradling William softly in his arms. William's eyes were shut now, his face colorless.

"You better wait for me," Dantalion said to those shut eyes.

The demons surrounded the barrier, trying to force themselves in. So many had heaped themselves onto the shield that they blocked out the light from the sun and left Dantalion in shadow. He grinned in spite of himself.

Red flashed. The barrier broke to pieces, the demons bursting from it and dissolving into flames. Dantalion crouched in the epicenter, waiting for their shrill cries to be drowned out by death.

He waited for a moment, holding onto William as if to... Dantalion didn't want to think about it.

The portal was still open, but no demons poured out. Instead, it was the portal itself that seemed to warp, growing bigger, a gaping shadow against the grass and sky. A hoofed foot emerged, gigantic, bigger than Dantalion. A huge hand ripped the portal wider and then a face appeared, black horns and rows upon rows of teeth. A bull, a wolf, a crocodile, it resembled all those nightmarish creatures, its body monstrous, towering above him. The portal behind it sagged and dissipated. This was the last one.

Dantalion shot a cautionary flare from his hand. The creature caught it and crushed it in its claws.

No good. But he would have to think of something quick. Suddenly, the demon flew at him, its mouth wide open, teeth as sharp as the points of arrows. Dantalion shot to the side, only barely getting away from its deadly, snapping jaws. It buried its mouth into the ground, the soil and grass torn asunder.

Dantalion launched another flare at it, but the beast took it, as if absorbing his power. Magic wouldn't work. He cursed under his breath.

There was no time left. He'd have to make a run for it the second the creature turned away. Its mouth was still chewing on dirt, so Dantalion rose, carefully balancing WIlliam in his arms.

He ran for it, but the beast's tail came careening down on him. Dantalion did not think twice, he threw William and took the force of the hit himself. He was struck to the ground, his chest crushed hard, his bones nearly breaking from the pressure. The tail flung up again and he took that opportunity to roll to the side. The world spun around him as he looked for William. There he was, lying off to the side, a few steps away if he could just make it to his feet.

He tried to rise but the creature held him down with its massive tail. Dantalion struggled as the creature lifted itself and stalked toward William, its claws barred, its mouth wide.

"Nooo!" Dantalion screamed, trying everything to get up from where it held him down.

"Williaaam!" He called, but the boy's eyes did not flutter open. He lay helplessly on the ground, blood discoloring the grass underneath. The creature stood above him, as if relishing Dantalion's reaction.

Then it opened its mouth and leaned in.

* * *

Astaroth rose steadily on the staircase. There was a pounding in her head, a pounding in her side and, all over a pounding of defeat and betrayal.

She watched as Baalberith leaned in close to Sytry, like a predatory hawk, as if to devour him. She couldn't take it anymore; she looked away.

"You despicable bastard," she said under her breath, to no one, to everyone, because everyone saw, her army and his, their eyes transfixed on the figures in the air. He'd planned it, she knew he had. He'd planned the whole thing from the beginning: Sytry's downfall, her reaction, his victory, her defeat. She looked out over the balcony, saw how thin her forces had become. How could she lead them now? Now that she knew that everything she did fell further and further into his plan.

_Well done, Grand Duchess Astaroth. I leant you a doll and you've returned with a general. _

The words rang in her ears, swift and pure, cutting like steel.

"You gave in so easily," she said, but she wasn't sure who she was addressing.

Baalberith returned to the steps, his nephew close at his side. Sytry did not face her.

"Call off your armies, Astaroth," the King of the West said. "Can't you see? You've already lost."

She smiled bitterly, blood running down her chin.

"Bastard! You planned this! All of it!"

"But didn't you, too, Astaroth?" He looked at her slyly. "Didn't you want my nephew to usurp me? How despicable of _you_, Grand Duchess Astaroth, to pit blood against blood."

She wanted to call him disgusting, every dark word in Egyptian, English and all the other languages of the human world. But there was nothing in humanity's language that could describe what he was. Only _demon_ came close.

"You should have known." He chuckled, placing an arm around Sytry. "Only _I_ can use my nephew."

Astaroth's stomach turned. She did not think the magic was to blame.

"Now, then Astaroth. You've lost. Remember our terms and hand your nephilim over to me."

"What will you do to them?"

"Kill them, of course."

Astaroth wanted to launch at him, to scream, to tear that smile off his face with her bare hands.

"You can't!" It was Sytry instead who faced Baalberith. "Please reconsider." He knelt in front of his uncle. "It's my fault she lost. I was irresponsible when I led her nephilim. Please, please don't harm them."

Astaroth held her breath. She didn't know what to expect, but she knew it would be something awful.

"And what can you offer me in return?" He asked, his fingertips rubbing against Sytry's cheek. He retracted his hand, his white glove smeared with blood. "What do I not have from you already?"

"I..." Astaroth watched Sytry shake, watched as he bowed his head. For a split second the thought that her nephilim would be better off dead than under Baalberith's rule crossed her mind. Because it was not _rule_ so much as complete and utter submission. That the demon in front of her had powers beyond magic and swordplay, that he could take away the free will of anything he chose, no matter who it was.

As expected of one who fell with Lucifer.

"I'll give you..."

Something made her turn around at that instant.

* * *

"BAALBERITH!" A woman's howl cut through air around them.

Eligos launched herself up the stairs, a black sword in her hand. Her eyes were not on her tormentor but on the thing he treasured most. Yes. To get back at Baalberith, she would finish the job she started in the throne room. She would kill his nephew and take his position by force. She was only a few steps away now, so very, very close.

It happened very slowly. Sytry did not move, did not think.

The sword plunged through, spraying blood in all directions. Sytry heard the sound of it, the pitch as it whistled through the air, the sound of ripping flesh and blood falling to the ground, heavier than rain.

It felt _so cold_. Sytry shuddered.

In front of him, his uncle crouched to the ground, a sword embedded in his chest.

"Uncllle!" Sytry cried in agony, flying to Baalberith's side without hesitation.

His uncle did not answer. Instead, he smiled slightly and collapsed.


	8. Bonding with Baalberith

_Long, long ago..._

The field of flowers shined brilliantly on the path to his sister's house. The angel who would one day be known as Baalberith smiled to himself. The sky was pure blue, azure slipping into sapphire, and the flowers beneath it swayed in the breeze.

He carried a bouquet with him, the flowers just at the cusp of blooming. She had asked him once why he liked flowers that were barely still buds. Why not the ones that were fully bloomed? _Because they're beautiful,_ he had said and she had left it at that. He was just coming out of adolescence then and was still unsatisfied, still impulsive, still ready to take up whatever cause suited him and still, still, hopelessly and eternally bored.

He stopped in front of a cottage, grass nuzzling up to its walls. It _would_ be a cottage, with vines growing over the awnings and flowers resting in the windowsills. She was one of the highest ranking angels, and yet she preferred this humble way of living. Gathering her own water from the well, washing her clothes in the stream that ran in the woods a little further off. _What an eccentric woman,_ he had heard angels whisper in certain circles. _But _she_ is of high standing and not to mention_...

She was at the door before he could knock.

"Welcome, ..." His name rolled off her tongue, softly, kindly, gently, warmly. "I was just about to have lunch in the garden. Would you care to join me?"

She held a sheet in her arm.

"Gladly," he said, taking the sheet from her as she replaced it with another.

And down they went, down the hill, to her _garden_. The fields were her garden, and she cared for the wildflowers as tenderly as if she had planted them herself. The humans would name their earth goddesses after her, their goddesses of nature, the soil and the seeds and the shoots and the harvests would all be dedicated to her.

"You haven't visited me for a while," she said, handing him a fruit from one of her orchards. "I was growing worried."

He accepted it, bit into it, the flavor spreading through his mouth like the breeze over the hills. "You needn't worry about me. You have your own family to focus on, now."

She smiled, pink lips like flower petals. He suddenly remembered the bouquet and handed it to her.

"How lovely," she gasped. The little buds had not yet opened, but soon they would. For her, they would. She buried her face into them, her hair spilling over, as if to glimpse at the blossoms they would become. He wondered for a second, for a minute, for not too long, if he would ever be as happy as she was.

Then she looked up, her blue eyes peering out into the still bluer sky. "Thank you," she said, an ounce of melancholy like a shadow cutting across her face. "Thank you for visiting me."

She opened her mouth to say something else, the parting of her lips sounding like a single drop of rain, when the bundle of sheets beside her started to cry. Then her attention was gone, diverted to the head of lavender-blue hair that had sprung up from the sheets.

"Are you awake, my dear?" She asked, her voice sweetly lilting, lifting the infant up. The sunlight caught its hair, as blue as her own.

He looked on, comforted by the scene. Then she turned toward him, offering the infant up. "You're always so good with him."

"He's grown so much since the last time I've visited," he said, not quite believing how time could change so much so quickly.

"You should visit more," was her answer. In his arms, the baby stopped crying. It looked up at him with wide, curious, blue eyes.

"I will. I will," he said.

* * *

"Baa!" The toddler bounced gently on her knee. He had just come back from a meeting with Lucifer, his mind brimming with ideas, but his lips unable to speak of any of them.

"Can you say Mama?" She cooed, jiggling her knee, the baby playfully going up and down.

"Maa!" It said, and then turned its face to him. "Baa!" It pointed.

"Yes, that's your uncle. Can you say his name?"

"Baa!" It happily proclaimed.

"Not quite," she said, smiling.

The cottage, with its earthen hues and wooden furnishings, felt cozily inviting. A fire blazed in the hearth, spreading a warmth around the small interior, and she sat in the middle of it, the queen of small things and domestic simplicity. This scene eased his mind for a moment. He did not think of revolution, of humanity, of free will. Of _sin_.

"You have your hands full today, don't you?" He asked her.

"Yes." She sighed, lifting the child from her knee and handing it to him. "Are you sure it's alright?"

The toddler was warm and soft and smelled of flowers in his arms.

"I'll take care of him. I don't mind," he tried to reassure her. "Don't make Gabriel wait any longer."

"Very well." She was out the door before he could say another word. He turned his attention back to the child.

"Can you fly yet?" He asked it.

"Baa!" It said to him. Its tiny wings flapped, but it could not escape his arms.

"I see." He grinned. "Someday, I'll teach you how to fly. How does that sound?"

The child giggled gleefully. He took a seat near the fire and played with his nephew for a while, but the cottage became a little too quaint. A little too stuffy. He gathered his nephew in his arms once again, opened the door and looked out.

Patches of mist clung to the hills, infusing the clovers and flowers with dew. Something called him to it, to that fine mist, and the way it blanketed the fields with mysterious transcendence. He followed it, the grass crunching underfoot as he walked down the meadow, stems and leaves clinging to his ankles in the wet, sticky haze.

His direction was aimless in the mist, in its surreal shimmer, and he wondered how long he _had_ been aimless, blindly following the orders of those higher in rank. Blindly adhering to their ways, as if that was the only way to live. It seemed like a dull existence, without any struggle, with only indiscriminate complacence. Perhaps he might have been happy in his blindness, like _she_ was, but Lucifer and the others had opened his eyes. Had made him see things beyond the clouds and flower petals. Beyond Heaven itself; and now he couldn't look away.

He did not think about how far he walked, if he would misstep somewhere and fall off the edge. Beads of water droplets now clung to the child's hair, a crown of shimmery gloss as delicate as dandelion spray. The mist was thick here, the flowers seemed to melt in the fog, their colors blurring together into murky violets and gossamer pinks until everything eventually became gray.

Something moved in that gray, a black spot covered in a hazy veil. He hugged his nephew close to his chest, although he did not know why. He only knew that it seemed like the most natural thing to do.

Then the shadow emerged and the angel of repentance stood before him, his expression severe.

"Lord Uriel," he bowed.

The angel looked at him blankly. There was no hint of happiness in his expression, like he was made of ivory and just as cold.

"What brings you _here, _my lord?"

His eyes narrowed. "I could ask the same of _you_."

The mist around them wafted ever so perceptively. Uriel beat his wings, dispelling it a little. It was clearer now and he could make out the lines on Uriel's face, sharp as crystal points.

Then Uriel's expression softened by the slightest degree, crystal becoming glass. "Bring that child back inside," he said. "Can't you see he's shivering?"

He looked down. It was as Uriel said, the child's skin rippled with tiny bumps and it shook slightly, its face contorted with confusion. With pain. He frowned, he hadn't thought anything was wrong. His nephew was always so quiet in his arms.

"Yes, Lord Uriel," he said.

Uriel continued to watch him as he retreated. For a second, he was afraid to turn his back, afraid that the angel might do something. He shook off the feeling. He'd never been afraid of anything before, of anyone, and the sensation was weird and alien to him.

He wrapped the child in his arms, using his wings to shield the both of them. "I'm sorry," he said to it, his voice quiet and fragile and close to dying. "I didn't notice."

He was back in the cottage before too long, drying off his nephew and then himself, although both sets of wings retained a wet, pure sheen. He mopped up the puddle of water they had made at the entryway; he did not want anyone to slip.

When she arrived home, she found them curled up in front of the fireplace, their wings glowing orange in the light. A smile ran across her lips, and he woke just in time to watch her expression break into laughter.

"He's quite the handful, isn't he?" She asked, leaning down, so that her long her hair barely touched his face.

"Not at all," he said, carefully lifting his nephew up from where he had fallen asleep on his chest. "He's very well behaved, he didn't cry once." _Not even when he should have._

She picked up her son, cradling him gently in her arms. "Thank you for taking care of him."

"It was my pleasure," he said. Then, as an afterthought, as a dream unfulfilled, he added, "One day, I hope to have children of my own."

Her eyes shined, orange from the fire warped by natural blue. "I'm sure you'll make a wonderful father some day."

When he stepped out of her house, the door clicking quietly behind him, he felt lighter somehow, freer. Ahead of him, the mist had dissolved. Now dark clouds loomed overhead, heavy with rain.

* * *

Journeys to the human world exhausted him. Some days, he had very little to report to Lucifer. Most days, he had nothing.

Today he had only a small bag. He returned, his wings beating, making the grasses around him tremble.

Dark clouds scattered themselves across the sky, little shafts of sunlight beaming through the interstices. It must have just rained, he thought. The path ahead of him radiated dazzlingly where the pillars of light touched the puddles on the ground. He had to shield his eyes from it; the light was too much.

"Fruits?" She asked, as he entered the cottage.

"Gifts," he said. "From the human world."

He pared the fruit of its red skin and slid the white flesh into the child's mouth.

"You spoil him," she said, her arms full with a basket of fresh cuttings, olive branches from her orchard. He longed to see them, the trees of twisted trunks and laurel leaves. Were the little white flowers blooming? He shook his head. There was no question, of course they were blooming, this was Heaven after all.

He cut off another piece and slipped it between the child's lips. When he tried to pull his hand away, he found it caught by a pair of tiny hands.

"He's so fond of you," she observed, crafting the cuttings into leafy crowns. "He always waits by the door when I tell him you're coming."

He smiled. "Can he fly yet?"

"No," she shook her head, pouting. "But everything has its time." She set a crown down and started to work on another.

"Yes, there's still plenty of time for you to learn," he said, addressing the child. It let go of his hand and grabbed at the air, as if demanding another piece of fruit.

He gladly obliged.

* * *

"They suspect us," Lucifer said, his chin resting on the back of his hand, his hair falling slightly over his face and obscuring his features. The drawn curtains further enhanced this effect, so thick not a speck of light could permeate them. The angel who would one day be known as Baalberith tried to look for his reflection in the polished table, but he could not find it. It was too dark.

"My brother, Uriel, Raphael," Lucifer read off the names. "And Gabriel." His eyes set on him. "They _know_."

"What do you propose we do, my lord?" Asked the seraphim who would become Beelzebuth.

Lucifer turned to the seraphim, his chin buried in his palm "It is a delicate situation." His eyes lighted for a moment, despite the darkness in the room. "We have few options. We can continue as we have now, in the dark, in secret. Or we could revolt against them." There was a very perceptible pause and they all waited with baited breath, for something they all could not quite believe. "Revolt against God."

There were gasps around him, but he stayed silent. He had suspected as much. Already, there were whispers of their group, in the highest circles, in the halls there were rumors and harsh looks and a shadow of distrust in all their steps.

"A revolution," the seriphim repeated, half as a question, half as a declaration. "We'll need to gather more forces if we're to have any chance of success."

Lucifer turned to him. "Then I'll leave it to you." He rose, smiling at them, a sad smile that they all had become enamored with. "I look forward to your progress."

They all rose, bowing to him. A curtain was drawn and the light flooded in, their wings gleaming white. The meeting was adjourned.

By the time he reached her house, the sky was at war with itself, raging reds fading into dying blues and purples that lingered like smoke trails.

The door was flung open again, before he could knock.

"He's missing," was all she needed to say before he was out, scouring the fields in the orange blaze of the dying sun.

_A revolution?, _he thought as he searched. _Has it already come to that?_ He trudged through the tall grasses and stalks of bell flowers, enflamed vermillion by the last, intense rays. He was both excited and alarmed by his excitement: were they to go against the way things had always been? Against the tides of time, against the will set upon them since the Beginning?

A feeling of trepidation invaded his heart, made him almost lose his balance in the damp undergrowth. If they were victorious, surely it would be Lucifer who ruled over the angels. Surely, his own status would be elevated and he could finally have what _he_ had. He could finally by _happy_.

But what if they failed? What would happen then?

The grasses gave way to patches of flowers and, in a cluster of anemones, he found his nephew.

He crouched down. A milky twilight was all he had to see by now. He touched the child's face, its cheeks moist.

"Were you crying?" he asked. _Because you were lost?_

He lifted his nephew and it was only now that he noticed how the right wing did not fold in, how it hung awkwardly on its back, like a flag on a day with no wind. He hurried back to the cottage.

The tip of the right wing had snapped out of place. Below him, his nephew whimpered softly, too tired to sob anymore. "This will only hurt for a moment," he whispered, wiping the tears away. He handled the wing deftly, setting it back into place. The child screamed, an agonizing sound that ripped through the small room and made his hands falter for a second. He recovered quickly, his strength was back and he was wrapping the tip, securing it back into place with a piece of cloth.

"Calm down, calm down," he soothed. "It's all over now. You'll be better soon."

His nephew hiccuped little sobs.

"No more trying to fly for a while," he said. "No more running away from your mama." _For a while._

The door opened. "I heard a scream," she said and then her eyes were plastered to her son's broken wing.

"It's only a minor fracture," he told her, but she was already rushing to him, gathering him in her arms and holding his head to her chest.

"He must have slipped somewhere and landed on it," he resumed, smiling, trying to put her at ease.

"You mustn't wander off like that," she said, still caressing the child's head.

Something in his chest flittered slightly. He was not sure what it was, because it did not yet have a name, yet he felt like it would consume him if he watched any longer. If he tried to remember the anemones, the color of his nephew's hair in the dying light.

"Thank you," she said, snapping him back into the cottage with its earthen hues and eternal warmth.

He smiled, although he felt like reprimanding at her. That it was her fault for the broken wing and all the child's suffering. Because she should have been _watching_.

"I must be going," he said, a little too quickly.

"Wait!" she called after him, but he was already gone.

* * *

He did not return for a long, long time after that. When he did, it was on a morning just before dawn. He found her gathering flowers on the path that led to her house. The grayness mellowed the blossoms' colors. They were dull in the thin light.

"How is he?" He asked when he came up beside her.

"He's fine," she said, not asking how _he_ was, only "he misses you. We all do."

Their speech was hushed by the early morning.

"The archangels won't listen to our demands," he said. Suddenly, he approached her, grabbed her wrist and made her drop the flowers. "You should listen to me. Take him and hide somewhere. Heaven won't be safe for much longer."

She frowned.

"You're slipping, ...," she said with sad eyes.

He let go of her, stunned that she would say such a thing.

"But why should humans have free will? Lord Lucifer is being unfairly ignored. Does not everyone have the right to Heaven?"

He looked over the fields, silent except for the whispers of trembling leaves awaiting the sun. Shouldn't everyone feel _this_ peace?

She looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Lord Michael and the others are angry. Even _God_ is angry."

"Let them be angry," he said. "They don't understand how necessary this is."

Her eyes were fierce. "No, it's _you_ who doesn't understand!"

He recoiled back from the shock of her words. He had never seen her look so harsh before. Angry lines etched across her face and her eyes pierced him with blue fury. She looked unlike herself.

"Please stop this." Tears formed at the tips of her eyes, like dew drops on a flower petal. "It's not too late."

"But I must-"

"Don't you know what will happen if you-"

The door opened and a child ran up to him, hugging his knee.

"Uncle!" Suddenly, there was no such thing as revolution anymore. The lines on her face eased, replaced by a sad smile. Lucifer did not exist, no one was angry and there were no tears. Even Heaven did not matter. There was only his nephew, who he lifted up, admiring how much he had grown, how his wings spread out across the sky like flowers over the fields.

"Shall I finally teach you how to fly today?" He asked. Sparing her one last glance, he walked off the path. The sun was rising, colors spreading over white wings, green fields and a smiling, innocent face.

* * *

He was _falling_. He could feel it.

The fields were ablaze, burning in the darkness. He made his way wearily up the path to her house, blood dripping with his footsteps. Uriel had pierced his wings, and Michael had sliced him across the bridge of his nose.

Everything had gone wrong so quickly. The archangels had taken up their swords, their spears, their arrows of light and had pushed their forces over the edge. Heaven itself had broken apart, cracking at the seams, whole land masses plunging into the darkness below. He had tried to fight them, but they were stronger, blessed by God. He had gotten away from them somehow, had evaded their sight for a while. He was sure they would find him. He was sure they would come for him and throw him over the edge.

He found his nephew waiting outside the cottage, staring out with a look that had no fear in it.

"Uncle?" The child said, running up to him, his eyes as wide and innocent as the day he had been born. For a second he wanted to stay. He wanted to plead to God, he wanted to stay in Heaven with its fields and skies. He wanted to see his nephew grow up.

Then a thought, a dark thought, flashed across his mind. He could just take the child, couldn't he? No one was looking, no one would know. Where ever he was going, he could just take anything he wanted. No one was watching anymore. Even God had turned away.

He touched the child's face.

It would be so easy...

The child started to cry.

"No, don't cry." He wiped the tears away. A seed had been planted in his chest, but the flower of cruelty had not yet bloomed.

He took the child into his arms and smelled flowers over the flames.

"Goodbye, ...," he whispered the child's name. "If you're fortunate, we'll never meet again." The blood was obscuring his vision now. Everything was red, everything was tainted, everything was lost.

He put the child down and started to walk away.

"Uncle!" It called after him, running up to him.

"Don't follow me!" He shouted back in repudiation.

It stopped, a blank look filling its face.

His heart fell for a moment. He looked back, trying his hardest to smile through the blood. "Don't forget me," he said.

Then he was running, his wings too damaged to fly. His feathers fell in clumps and with every step he became a little lighter, a little emptier.

In the distance, he heard his nephew call his name one, last time.

* * *

Lucifer looked out at the wasteland. "My most loyal friends, it seems this is where we are to mete out the rest of our eternity. For your service, I grant you these lands."

He turned to them, his expression so beautiful it might have caused tears if their hearts had not been hardened.

"Samael, you may keep your name. I bestow upon you the East and you shall rule it as your own," he said, and then turned to the others. The one who had once been a seraph and the other. "But you two must choose new names."

_Baa!_

A child's voice played in his ears.

He said the name, a new name, one he had chosen for himself.

"Baalberith," Lucifer said, "you may rule the West."

"And to you Beelzebuth, dominion over the North.

"But what of you, Lord Lucifer?" The newly named Baalberith asked. "Shall you rule the South?"

He shook his head.

"No, I shall rule over you all as emperor of this land."

Baalberith bowed.

* * *

Baalberith woke.

He coughed, black blood sputtering over the sheets.

"Uncle!" Sytry was beside him, holding him up, wiping the blood from his lips. His mind drifted in and out of dreams. Finally, it settled on the war.

"What happened?" He demanded when the worst of it was over. Sytry told him of Eligos' escape, how he was brought into the castle, coughing up blood and how their armies had retreated.

"Has Astaroth ceded over her nephilim yet?" More spurting coughs erupted from his lips.

"She has." Silence. And then, "Uncle, why do you hate the nephilim?"

He paused for a moment. Felt something sting his throat and wiped away the blood gurgling from his lips.

"Because they do not know our _pain,_" he finally said.

The feeling in his throat subsided. He looked at Sytry, at the scars on his cheek, at the eyes that he could only inflict pain on.

"Don't you hate me?" He said to those eyes.

He felt a hand tremble on his back. "No." A sad voice. A weak voice. The hand was removed from his back, the cloth removed from his chin. "I've never hated you."

"Why not?" He smiled, feeling the weakness in his chest, a large, gaping void. "Shouldn't you hate me the most?" He reached out, felt the cheek without any scars. "You have every right to hate me."

"Don't you think I've tried?" His nephew said desperately. Something wet slipped over his fingers. "I can't." There was a tremor in his hand, he felt it grow weak and would have dropped it, if not for Sytry, who held it up, clasped it with his own against his cheek. Feeling the remnants of warmth that dwelled there. "I could never hate you. But how could you...?"

They were silent for a moment, memories of fields and flowers lighting up the darkness. Joy and blue skies and soaring with the sun. Then it was gone, the warmth, the hand at his cheek, the memories of home, like water running off from a heavy rain, slipping off a cliff.

"You are bound to me," he said. "Never forget that."

"I won't," he bowed his head, still clutching at his hand.

"But how could you?" came a whisper from the dark.


	9. Mending with Maria

Dantalion watched from his position on the ground, paralyzed by the creature's tail. Paralyzed by fear.

His eyes burned and his limbs felt empty. There was nothing he could do for William.

It felt like... like...

When Solomon died. He tried to stop the memories but they burst through. Solomon's blood on his hands and those dead, empty eyes.

Would William look like that too?

Suddenly, the sound of something cracking invaded his ears. Something had flung itself at the creature's jaw making it reel back, moaning in pain. Then it was on it again, a green flash, spinning wild and turbulent, bewildering the creature as it cut into its flesh. Dantalion felt its tail leave him and in a second he was at William's side.

"Get him away from here!" Camio yelled from above, slashing at the demon.

Dantalion didn't think twice. William was in his arms in a second, and he ran, finding the nearest building and ducking into it. The infirmary again. He placed William on the bed and ripped open his shirt. A long, red gash greeted him as he peeled William's clothes away. It looked bad, but not as deep as Dantalion initially thought.

He ran to the cabinet, looking for gauze or thread or anything to close the wound.

By the time he returned, William's eyes were open: glossy, pale green that did not respond when he approached, did not call out his name when he started to apply the bandages.

"Kev... in...?" William's voice was nothing more than a chocking whisper.

"No, it's me, Dantalion," he said, pressing bandages to the gash. It soaked through. He would need more. Much more.

"Dan..ta..li..on...?" The syllables came out painfully slow.

"Shh, William. You shouldn't talk now." He replaced the bandage and pressed it to the wound. Being sure to hold it there, he wrapped the gauze around William's upperbody, careful not to move him any more than necessary. It was an arduous process, but as he tied the last bandages together, he finally breathed a sigh of relief. William had gone back to sleep and now Dantalion let himself relax.

William will be alright now, he told himself. Everything will go back to normal. To the way it was before.

* * *

Leonard had laid out his favorite foods, as if in anticipation of his return. Sytry recognized the lavish details that went into crème brûlée's glossy surface, how it caught the light hanging from the chandelier, a dazzling copper landscape. It seemed too much of a shame to crack open.

In a glass chalice, little gelatin candies sat wrapped in delicate rice paper. Would it be better to consume it whole or unwrap it piece by piece, so that the jelly spilled over the plates?

No, no. That would be too messy.

Instead, he took a spoon and dug into the shaved ice. He let the coldness wash over him, let it chill his mouth and mind. He liked the texture of the ice. Ice so cold that nothing could get in. Ice so pure that nothing could get out._ Frigid_. How long had Leonard worked on this?, he asked himself as he looked over the table display. How long had he known that there was no question, no choice, that his master _would_ come back here.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door slammed open.

"Ah, so the prodigal son returns." Baalberith's son strode in, his expression as sardonic as always. "You caused such a mess for Father," he said, taking a seat across from him, tipping the chair back, his black boots gleaming on the table. Some of the dishes toppled over, their contents pouring over the tablecloth. "I hope you're _sorry_."

Sytry did not look at him. He dug out another spoonful from the ice and put it in his mouth. The flavor engulfed him immediately: peaches and watermelon from a warm, sunny afternoon. He longed to be there, on a sheet spread across a meadow, butterflies fluttering in the midday hush.

His cousin suddenly kicked the tablecloth off the table. Glasses and plates crashed to the floor, the sound invading Sytry's ears, like a clap of thunder, the snap of a bowstring. The meadow dissolved and his cousin was there, leering at him from across the table.

"You have no right!" He said furiously. "After what you caused, you have no right to come back here and to be treated like a prince!" He folded his arms. "Clean it up."

"You aren't Uncle. I don't have to listen to you."

He leered. "I can do whatever I want to _you_. You aren't Father's candidate anymore. You have no rank here."

Sytry looked down, the spoon still in his hand. It caught his reflection, caught someone who stared out with blue eyes and knew he could not refuse.

"Hurry up, or I'll tell Father."

Sytry placed the spoon on the table and knelt down, collecting the shards. The sharp pieces rested in his hand, the one that had been seared by his uncle's magic. How long ago was it from when he had led armies over the hill? He had not kept track of time.

His cousin came up before him, looming over.

"How unfortunate that you're healing so quickly," he said. Sytry ignored him, gathering the pieces as quickly as he could. He reached for another but felt his cousin's fingertips at his cheek, tracing one of the scars there. "I wanted everyone to know how accurate my aim was."

Sytry tore his face away from the touch. Memories of the battle came flooding back, of the arrow whizzing past him. Somehow it made sense, that _he_ would be the one to shoot it. A bow and arrow suited him perfectly. Someone who never got his hands dirty.

"It was a cheap shot," he said just to spite him.

Above him, his cousin exhaled fiercely.

There was no time to get away as his cousin's boot crushed his palm, the shards of glass and porcelain viciously digging into his hand, cutting open the skin. "Serves you right!" He said, far more words at the tip of his tongue. But his cousin was not one to give too much away. He pressed one last time, a hard and painful crush that made Sytry whimper in spite of himself. Then the boot was lifted and Sytry grabbed at his wrist, his palm shredded, broken bits sticking out in a pool of fresh blood. He bent over, trying to bite back a groan.

Above him, his cousin smirked.

"There, that's better," he said. "Now everyone will know exactly where you stand."

He walked off, wiping off his boot on a rug before he left.

* * *

Dantalion waited patiently. The seconds ticked by agonizingly slow and then suddenly, very, very fast, as if time was making up for having been stopped for so long. The sky rotated from a cheery blue to a forbidding black in a matter of seconds, and somewhere outside students stood around the darkened school yard with disoriented looks of confusion.

William had not opened his eyes. Dantalion sighed, running a hand through his bangs. He was slightly colder than Dantalion was expecting, but at least he wasn't feverish. He lit up all the candles in the room at once, as if that would make William warmer somehow.

There was a knock at the door and he turned around just in time to see Maria Mullins cross the threshold. He fretted for a moment. What was she doing here? And was he really so careless, letting a mere human in?

"You did a fine job of patching him up, Dantalion," she said as she approached. "Although I wouldn't have been so liberal with the bandages."

He scrutinized her. "Why're you doing here?"

She smiled, making her way to the supply cabinet. "Young boys always find ways of getting themselves cut up somehow," she spoke, taking out a pair of scissors, needle, thread, and matches. "Bruises and broken legs and broken hearts." She closed the cupboard. "Whether it's from an accident, a fall, other young boys," she turned around to him, her eyes as narrow as her smile, "_or demons_."

He looked away. Of course, this was a human who did have some knowledge of the underworld. He didn't want to wonder about how much.

She returned to the bedside and started to snip the bandages away. "I suppose that's why people like me exist." _Snip, snip, snip_. "To kiss away their tears." _Snip, snip, snip_. "To make them feel safe." She lifted away the bandages to reveal a pink strip on white flesh. "To tell them not to do it again. But we both know they will." She looked at him in a sad, sweet way. "Because that is what young boys do, after all."

Dantalion looked at her quizzically. He wasn't sure what she was talking about, or if she was even talking to him. He didn't have time to discuss the domestic duties of old maids and so he didn't bother responding.

She threaded the needle and then struck the match, burning it.

"Human lives must seem like a blink of an eye to demons," she continued as she shook the match, extinguishing it. She put on her glasses and began to sew the skin. "So short and insignificant."

"Th-that's not true," Dantalion said.

"Oh?" She did not look up at him, totally absorbed by her work.

"I mean, the insignificant part. Not all human lives are insignificant to us-I mean demons."

"And how do you determine which ones are significant?" She asked. "By making a contract with them? By stealing their souls?" She finished, tying and cutting it. The needle hung by a thread in her fingertips. "Or is it love?"

Dantalion looked away, unable to speak.

She rose, checking over William one last time. "He should be alright now, provided he doesn't move too much for a while." Returning the materials to their proper places, she smiled again at him.

"See that he keeps himself out of trouble. I may be retired, but I still care about the students of this school."

She made for the door, opening it and peering out into the dankness.

"Humans shouldn't fall in love with demons," he said to her back.

She turned. Her glasses had slid down her nose and now Dantalion could make out how the wrinkles played around her eyes. It was a coy look, a look that knew too much, despite the fact that it came from a human who had not lived as long as he had.

"But we both know they do," she said. Then she was gone, shrugging a blanket around her shoulders and disappearing into the night.

Dantalion mulled over her words, unable to make sense of any of them. She was just a human. What could she possibly know about demons, anyway? He sat slightly hunched in the uncomfortable wooden chair. How was Astaroth?, he wondered suddenly. Had she won the war? No, if she had she would have come to him, eyes sparkling. Her silence meant something was wrong.

Silences had meant a lot lately.

_Dantalion... I..._

What was William going to say that time? A dark part of Dantalion thought it was better that he hadn't finished the sentence. Silence was better than words. Some words couldn't be taken back.

All the candles had blown out by the time William finally opened his eyes. It was too dark for him to see, of course, and he silently waited as his eyes adjusted. He knew who sat at his bedside, even without being able to see.

"Danta...lion...?" he said, wanting to kick himself for how weak his voice sounded.

"Yes, William," Dantalion answered.

"What happened?"

"You were attacked by a demon."

Yes, now he remembered. The dark glob sliding up to him, a scythe-like appendage striking his side, pain erupting. The portal and the barrier and him and Dantalion in the mix of things. Dantalion at his side...

"Is it gone now?"

"Yes."

"Were there any damages to the school? The students?" _That can be traced back to me?_

"No."

"And everyone's okay?"

"Yes."

"And are _you_ okay?"

"Yes."

"Liar. What's wrong with you?"

"Huh?" The demon suddenly fidgeted in the darkness.

"You're so quiet all of a sudden. It isn't like you." He could feel his strength coming back, ever so subtly.

Dantalion winced. "You _did_ almost die."

"It wouldn't be the first time," William said a little too nonchalantly. "And you've never acted like this before."

"Who says I'm acting?"

"You're right," William sighed. "I almost forgot how much you butchered Claudius' lines that time."

Yes, Maria was right. William would most certainly be okay provided he didn't move too much, but Dantalion felt like jostling him right then and there. Instead, he kept his hands close and stayed in his seat. Even demons could resist temptation sometimes.

"You should rest," he whispered solemnly.

"I'm cold," William complained. "It's too cold to fall asleep. I don't suppose you could fall asleep in a cold room like this." _Especially in this uncomfortable infirmary bed again_. He felt the sheets, so thin and flimsy against the autumn chill. "Why is it so cold in here?"

He heard the chair screech across the floorboards and then he felt the mattress sink in.

Dantalion crawled into the bed with him, tenderly, gently, wrapping his arms around him. "You lost a lot of blood," he whispered, so close to William's ear it made his neck and scalp tingle. "That's why you're cold."

The demon was _warm_, and it was a warmth that William both wanted more of and wanted to get away from.

"Y-you're close," he said, not able to formulate more than that.

Dantalion did not move. "Does it feel... _bad_?"

William stared up at the ceiling. His heart fluttered and for a second, and he thought it would break out of his chest and fly through the roof.

"No," he said, still staring up. "It feels... good."

Dantalion moved closer. William could feel his breath, rolling down the side of his face like mist down a mountain. _Why do demons need to breathe?_, his mind thought idly. _Aren't they pretty much immortal? _But then again, demons weren't so different from humans, after all. He turned to the demon, looking at him carefully in the darkness. It felt _nice_ being this close to him. Now he could see Dantalion's features to a startling degree, his strong jaw line and barely parted lips. Something surged in his body. He suddenly felt like he had energy again, a lot of it, too much of it. He came in close to Dantalion, so close that he was sure the other would flinch away. But he didn't. William took his chance.

A snapping sound was heard as William greedily explored Dantalion's lips. He skimmed the surface, feeling the heat, like fire in a hearth, and wanted, _needed,_ to go deeper. But it was Dantalion who quickly took control, who was on top of him in an instant, carefully leaning over him so that he did not disturb his injury. Yes, Dantalion had a warm mouth and now that he opened it wider, William could feel it invading him, engulfing him. He wanted Dantalion to be everywhere. To sink into him as one sunk into water, forgetting everything.

Then, suddenly, he felt very cold. He stopped moving and the lips on his face gasped, "William!"

_Shouldn't have done that,_ William scolded himself. _Lost a lot of blood. And also..._

Dantalion shook him enough to rattle the brains in his skull.

"St... op...," he murmured. "I-I'm... fine..." He scrunched his eyes.

"Of course you aren't. You almost died!" Dantalion reprimanded him. "And what was I thinking just now..."

_Nothing_, William wanted to say, but he couldn't. He was cold again and the sensation of Dantalion, even his taste, had all but disappeared from his lips. Was it because he was exhausted that he had done that? But it felt so natural. So... Something swept over him like a chilling wind: he had just kissed Dantalion. He balked at the memory of it. What had he been thinking!? No, no that didn't just happen, did it? Of course not. He was very tired. He had probably been hallucinating.

"What are you smiling about?" Dantalion asked.

"N-nothing." _ But still... it had felt _nice_._

Dantalion took off his coat and covered him in it.

"Don't make me choose, William." His breath was hot on his ear, solemn, with none of the enthusiasm it had before.

"Wha...?" William gaped as Dantalion leaned away. His eyes were sad, the same eyes that he had when he had asked William not to deny him.

"Between saving you or letting you die." _Killing you_... "Don't make me choose again."

"Dantalion... I..." William's mind felt like a swamp and the more he tried to think of something, the further he got lost in the muck. It would be so much easier not to think of anything, to not have to wade through such murky feelings. _Why, why, why...?_ And why Dantalion?

He tried to think of something to say but the coat was so warm and he felt so tired.

"Shh..." Dantalion said, covering his mouth with a single finger. "You don't need to say it." _Don't say it! _

"I..."

He was asleep before he could say another word.

* * *

Leonard wrapped the bandage around his palm. With deft hands he had pulled out the shards of glass and china, had cleaned up the rest of the mess.

"Please don't go near him," Leonard urged, his voice hushed, as if anyone could be listening. Watching. "Hide."

"He'll find me wherever I go."

"There is _one_ place."

Sytry looked down at his hand. It still stung and he couldn't shake off the feeling that there was glass embedded in there somewhere, rubbing against the raw skin, cutting it open again.

"Only _he_ can protect you," Leonard said sadly. "Please try to get back into his favor."

It was as Astaroth had done. To push the enemy back so that they had nowhere to go but into the fray. Nowhere to run but onto swords ready to impale them. Astaroth...

"Leonard?"

"Yes?"

"Have you heard anything about Lady Astaroth? Or the nephilim?"

Leonard shook his head. "I have not."

Sytry sighed. "What about William?"

Leonard started but Sytry cut him off. "No, never mind. I..."

He flexed his fingers, the bandage not giving much slack to move them properly.

"Thank you, Leonard, for everything. But..."

"Master Sytry?"

"Don't get close to me anymore. I have no rank here. If something happens, I can't protect you." His eyes were stuck on the bandage. He couldn't look at the sheep now. He didn't want to see him. Head down, he strode out of the door. He thought Leonard might have called after him, but his mind was elsewhere. On the ice again.

He stayed out of sight for a while, in the little parlor rooms that dotted the castle's interiors. He looked over the designs on the wooden furnishings. Lush carved leaves adorned the edges of the tables, and on the mantle were olive branches, delicately crafted reliefs that seemed to spring out of the wood. He was daydreaming of a sunny olive grove when he heard voices in the corridor. Peeking out from the door, he saw noble demons in exquisite evening wear lining the hall.

"Now, what do we have here?" A horned demon noticed him. There was no point in hiding any longer.

"What's going on?" He asked, stepping out from behind the door. "Who invited you?"

"We're celebrating our victory over Astaroth, of course. It's a victory ball."

"There's nothing to celebrate," Sytry cut in. "Uncle lost just as many soldiers as she did. And he's still getting over his injuries from Eligos."

"So we've heard," the demon smiled, looking at his party. "But isn't it curious that the Grand Duke still hasn't chosen a new candidate? Would you happen to know anything about that?" The demon eyed him.

Sytry frowned. He hated demons like this, the nobility who thought they were entitled to everything. For them, Hell was a one grand foray of parties and salons and gossip and high culture. He doubted any one of them had so much as drawn a sword. Theirs was a position of privilege, they were the voyeurs on the steps.

"Of course you don't. It's often the relations that know the least of all, isn't it?" The demon walked away, his group following him.

He ducked back into the room, closing the door firmly behind him. He walked to the windows, intent on closing the curtains, when he noticed the scene outside. Candles had been lit, illuminating the gardens and entryway. Clusters of elegantly dressed demons were arriving, their delicate footwear walking over what had once been a battleground. Of course, it didn't look like that anymore. Magic had cleansed the pathways, had made beautiful plants sprout from the ashes. The only scars were on those who had survived. He closed the curtains, the heavy drapery swishing as he tugged.

Suddenly, the door slammed open behind him.

"There you are!"

Baalberith's son and a few of his retainers stood in the doorway. He made for Sytry, grabbing his arm. "Wouldn't you like to join the party?" He pulled, voice sickly sweet.

Sytry pulled back. "What are you-"

He was kicked in the stomach.

"How dare you address your master that way!"

"You aren't my-" He gasped.

"What belongs to Father belongs to me!" He turned to the servants. "Make sure he comes out and greets our guests properly."

They descended on him, boorish monsters that were all claws and fists, bones like metal and eyes like coal. He was paraded out of the room and down the corridor.

"Why, isn't that...?" He heard whispers.

"I believe it is." Snickers.

The grand hall was lit up as if for a celebration. The floors reflected the shining chandeliers, converting the light into eery, ghostly forms.

"Your battle scars are quite captivating, Sytry," a demon came up to him. "Hopefully the Grand Duke will reelect you soon."

"You are his favorite after all." Another his her words behind a fan.

Before long, he was forced to the center of the hall, into the crowd of demons. Their dark eyes beheld him, probing, as if to find a weak point.

His cousin ascended the staircase. Behind him, the wall was adorned with profiles and portraits, reliefs cut into the off-white walls. "Ladies, gentlemen, and ephemeral forms," his cousin addressed the crowd. "On behalf of my Father, thank you for your support with this past conflict," he bowed pompously. Rising, his expression turned melancholic. _Mechanically_ melancholic. "Our sincerest apologies for the friends you may have lost and the injuries you might have suffered." His lips quirked, as if he was unable to sustain the expression any longer. He rose his goblet, golden shimmering in the light. "For not, let us forget our losses and celebrate this fruitful victory!"

The crowd cheered.

"My father, although he cannot attend tonight, set aside something very special for an auspicious occasion such as this."

The crowd murmured. "Bottles of 1787 Château Y'quem?" A demoness tittered from behind an ornate fan, her freshly waxed horns poking out from under a rococo hairstyle.

"No, no. It must be something more tantalizing," a male demon chided her, his regal coat the color of midnight. "Perhaps a new opiate from the human world?"

Baalberith's son snapped his finger and a demon came out from a corridor, carrying a casket the size of a small child. The locks of it had rusted over and the finish was covered in dust. Engravings had been cut into it, sometimes carefully, sometimes forcibly. Once, it might have been a light, azure color, but now it was a dull lavender, worn with age.

At once they felt it, a ripple in the room as the aura emanating from the casket enveloped them. Some of the female demons sighed, fanning their chests in titillating excitement. The beasts bore their fangs, saliva dripping off like water from stalactites in a cavern. And all around, pupils dilated, fixated on the box.

In the center of this feverishness, Sytry stood frozen. Something from the casket called to him, something with a voice both baleful and horrifying. His breath caught in his throat, he could not breathe. Mournful, echoing sobs that seemed to transcend time filled his mind. Sobs from a child with glassy eyes and a dead soul. Sytry covered his ears, his knees caving in. He thought he would die, it was too much.

His cousin's lips curled with acidic malevolence.

"Yes, it is indeed something very special. Something that does not exist in this _world_."

The crowd groveled under the banister, their chests heaving in excitement.

"Open it!" They cried with carnal desire. "_Please,_ open it."

He stretched out his arms. "You want me to _open_ it?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"But there's someone else we must also thank for this."

The demons gasped, chocking out inarticulate sounds.

"Yes, someone who is a little different from us." He leaned against the balustrade, some of his wine splashing to the open mouths of the demons below. "Someone whose contribution made this night possible."

His eyes narrowed, trained on the figure who was kneeling. _Even after all the trouble you caused, Father still let you back. I've been here this whole time and yet he still... he still..._

Memories flooded his mind. _He was a child and_ _Father had been gone a long, long time. He sat by the doorway, waiting. 'Where is he?,' he would demand of the servants, demand of the demons his father had contracted with. But they had only given him shrugs. 'The human world, maybe.' He paced impatiently throughout the halls, waiting, waiting, waiting. Finally, his father arrived home, carrying something bandaged and bloody in his arms. 'What's that?,' he asked. 'A new nephilim?' He guessed, the world slurring derisively on his tongue. But his father wasn't one to carry his contracts home. 'My nephew,' his father said, brushing him aside and making for his chamber. He locked himself in there for days and when he did emerge a blue-eyed demon stood by his side._

Suddenly, he flung the casket's lid open and a smell invaded the crowd's nostrils. Some had never smelled it, but for those who had it brought back memories of long, long ago, a smell so vivid that their blood seemed to simmer in their veins.

Baalberith's son reached in with a hand, holding something in his fist. He brought it to his nose and inhaled. His irises rolled back, his face intoxicated by the scent.

"Let them have it," he said to the demon beside him. "Let them _desecrate_."

At once, the hall was awash in a rain of white feathers. Demons grabbed at them before they could hit the ground, others crawled on their hands, knees and hooves to get a piece. They brought it to their nostrils, to their mouths, inhaling, consuming plumule ambrosia. The feathers were pure white, but every now and then, one would flutter down with dark spots of coagulated blood.

Anarchy broke out as the demons tried to seize the same feathers. There were shouts and screams, a great beating of hoofs and a scratching of claws. And yet, above the noise, there were sensual sighs as the demons got a little taste of Heaven.

One feather clung to Sytry's hair, hidden in the pale tuft. He plucked it out, clutching it in his shaking palm.

_Stop it._

Peels of laughter blended with shouts of accusation.

_Don't._

A demoness placed a feather on her forked tongue.

_Don't look at it._

A demon buried his face in a handful of feathers.

_Don't look at my-_

His cousin licked a feather, a flavor unimaginable spreading through his mouth, lighting a fire that burned through his body and melted his mind.

_Those... those were_ mine.

Some of the demons collapsed, their bodies shaking in coital glee.

Sytry sobbed, the feather trembled in his hand its brilliance fading. His world became very narrow, the demons and the brilliant hall and his cousin on the banister tapered away, the colors warping and running together. Something ached, a phantom pain shooting from his spine to... to...

_With these you can fly, she said_.

The feather turned ash gray in his hand.

* * *

Baalberith's son looked out across the hall. The party was over and the demons had left, feathers strewn across the floor, sullied and soiled by their lust. He smiled, nothing in Hell stayed pure for very long.

"His Majesty may be angry," his acquaintance said beside him, holding the casket, only bone and fluff.

"It was only the left wing," he said. "I don't know where he keeps the right one."

He strolled down the stairs, admiring the debauched state of the hall. In the center of this maelstrom knelt the final guest. The guest who could not leave.

He lifted his chin, admiring the tears streaking down his cheeks, to the fading scars and down, down, down. "That was punishment for betraying Father," he said. "And for disobeying me. If you do that again, it won't be your feathers that I throw to the crowd."

The face did not change.

"Yes, stay that way." _And remember who it was that _made_ you..._

"It really has been an eventful evening," he said, turing to his friend.

"Yes," his friend nodded. "Let's retire, shall we?"

They walked off into the corridor, their laughter cutting like shards of glass.

* * *

The corridor to his uncle's chamber was lined with statues, _carved by Pygmalion himself,_ his uncle used to say. Now they stared down at him with empty, ivory eyes. He walked on, footsteps clicking on the marble floors, a metronome that sometimes hurried and sometimes stopped completely. There was still something he could do. He didn't care about the rest, about their laughter and about feathers. The trail of cigar smoke guided him to the deepest part of it, to the burning of the ashes, a yellow light burning in the dark. He followed it to the figure sitting on the chair, his chest wrapped in bandages.

He knelt before him. The floor was softer here than in the throne room, a plush carpet of red in the dim light.

"Now what deal did you want to make with me?"

Sytry stared up at him, vacantly.

"Did you think I forgot?" His uncle's tone was thick, a thickness deep and consuming. "You wanted to exchange something for the nephilim, did you not?"

_And what can you offer me in return? What do I not have from you already?_

Again, Sytry was frozen.

"Be my perfect doll," he said. "And I'll return the nephilim to Astaroth."

"I wil-" he tried to say, but a hand covered his mouth as he was pushed to the ground.

"Dolls don't talk," his uncle said. "Dolls don't have wills."

The floor suddenly felt very hard and he closed his eyes. All that could be heard was the sound of something slipping.

* * *

_A week later..._

Camio played the piano, a song by Chopin, and William listened to it, even the harsh, discordant part in the middle that he usually didn't like. The lighter notes running in circles on the keys, sometimes away from, sometimes toward the deeper notes. Then it was back to the hymn-like, bittersweet melody, to the crescendo of feeling and longing it had been before. Dantalion sat next to him.

They still hadn't talked about it. About the closeness of that night, about the things they could not say. If William thought about it now, it brought a blush to his face that he tried to hide. But it was so hard in this sunny room, in this place where Dantalion was so close beside him.

"Dantalion... I..."

Dantalion looked at him, in that sad way that matched the notes on the keyboard.

"Thank you for that time," he said, a mumble barely discernible in the reverberating room. "For everything," he finally said. _For staying..._

Dantalion finally gave him a hint of smile, was about to say something else when a portal opened, a black maw of abysmal purple. He shot straight up. Not again! But he quickly relaxed when he saw who emerged.

"Dantalion," Astaroth greeted. There was no doubt that she had been in a battle. On her side, angry swelling lines formed like mountains between a valley of stitches. But above all, she looked tired, weary, like she didn't want to talk about it.

"Your Highness," Dantalion inclined his head. He wanted to ask her so many things, but something kept pestering him, kept his mouth shut.

"What happened, Astaroth?" It was William who spoke, in that up front way that held no diffidence for the Grand Duchess.

She frowned and took her time walking to a seat near them. Finally, she said, "it was a failure."

"But y-you're alright, aren't you?"

She gave a dry grin. "Of course. He couldn't get the best of me."

"So what happened?"

She launched into an explanation, starting with Leonard's arrival until the confrontation on the steps of Baalberith's palace.

"You wagered the nephilim!?" Now Dantalion couldn't help but speak. "But how, why?"

"They wanted to go to battle. In the end it was their choice. But..."

"So what did that bastard do to them?"

Astaroth's face fell back to a frown. "He released them. They're back under my protection now."

"What?" Dantalion gasped. Then, "I-I mean good. He probably didn't know what do with them, fickle bastard."

"It doesn't make sense," Camio interjected. "Why would he return the nephilim so easily?"

Astaroth was silent. She looked as if she couldn't answer, that not even her best guess could be anywhere close to the truth. A truth she didn't want to think about. They all sat around the room and William was reminded of the parties he had gone to, the ones where the aristocrats would seal themselves in a room and discuss the fate of a country. Those discussions never happened at the houses of parliament, they took place in private, secret. At parties for the noble class. He remembered the episode with Swallow's father. Some very terrible things happened at parties, William realized.

"That's right!" William spoke up. "What happened to Sytry? Why didn't he come back with you?"

Her look turned desolate for a moment. "He returned to his uncle's side in the end."

They all gave her incredulous looks.

"So after all of that... he just...?" William gaped.

"Annoying little brat," Dantalion folded his arms. "In the end, he still wanted to be a candidate, after all."

Astaroth shook her head. "I wouldn't be so sure, Dantalion. Baalberith still hasn't said a word about electing someone."

They all sat there, pensively mulling over the details. William scratched his head. All this business about demons and wars and elections seemed very complicated all of a sudden. Did he really have what it took to be a prime minister in his own world? He shook the idea out of his head. Of course he did! And he'd start by proving that to everyone.

"Open a portal, Dantalion." He stood up very firm, the perfect posture for a politician. A diplomat.

"What? What are you talking about, William?"

"I'm going to settle this."


	10. Shadows with Sytry

The demon world was as William remembered it, give or take a few minor details. He wasn't dressed in some ridiculous costume for one. Even if other demons did recognize him, there was little they could do, given the two high-ranking demons that surrounded him. Not that there was anyone around _to_ recognize him out here-they were somewhere on a desolate plain, nothing for miles and miles except scrub brush and dead trees.

"This isn't... uh... what I expected," William attempted to make some sort of conversation. Camio and Dantalion had been silent since stepping through the portal. Silent as hunters. Or the _hunted_.

"You were expecting something?" Dantalion quipped up.

"Every time I've gone to the Hell it's always so grandiose. But really," he said, looking around at the nothingness, "besides the parties, Hell really isn't all that... lively."

Dark clouds hung in the distance, lazily brooding over coal gray mountains. The dry grasses at his feet seemed to crumble away as he stepped over them and every once in a while, dust would kick up from the howling winds rushing in from the north. He'd have to cover his mouth and eyes when that happened. It wasn't a very pleasant experience, walking around in Hell.

Camio and Dantalion looked at him, their faces deplete of any emotional sentiment.

"This is the antithesis of paradise, after all," Camio said, his arms folded as he observed the scene. "It's _supposed_ to look like this."

"Why don't you change it?" William asked.

"Change it?" Camio echoed. "How would we change it?"

"I don't know. Make it rain once in a while, maybe." He'd learned quite a bit about magic over the past few days. Regrettably.

Dantalion shook his head. "Our magic doesn't work that way. Besides," he said as he crested a hill. "This is Grand Duke Baalberith's domain." He looked below, at the imposing castle and its dots of greenery.

"Finally, something interesting to look at." William reached the top of the ledge. "Why can't the rest of this place look like that?" He said, observing the plant life that surrounded the castle, adorning it with an ornate and delicately trimmed refinery.

"It's most likely just an illusion," Dantalion said as he headed down. "An aesthetic touch and nothing more."

William frowned. He'd have to test Dantalion's theory when he descended on the castle grounds. But how did illusions in the demon world work exactly? Would his hand pass through it, or would he be able to touch it, as he had done with Eligos' illusions of Mr. Swallow and the boy from math class?

But he soon forgot about his conviction for hypotheses when they arrived on the grounds. Gilles de Rais greeted them before the gardens, his expression one a little more apathetic than what William was used to.

"To what do I owe this visit," he said without humor, "is something I would ask, but I think I know what it is." His face seemed to have healed considerably from the last time William had seen him. There were only faint lines here and there, the rest covered with a copious amounts of makeup.

"Don't try anything funny, Rais," Dantalion intimidated.

Rais looked William over, his eyes not showing a hint of enthusiasm. "He doesn't have that awful ring, does he?"

William shook his head, unsure if he should be glad or embarrassed by the admission.

"Then he's no concern of mine," Rais turned around. "Right this way, now. I'll tell my master you're all here."

They followed Rais up the staircase, into the entry hall and were asked to be seated on a few arm chairs. Gilles de Rais walked off into one of the hallways and William was left to stare at the room. Now this was the Hell William remembered, all affluence and grandeur and shining chandeliers and gleaming floors. Not even his manor, before bankruptcy, compared to a place like this. It was truly splendid, and a part of William wished if he would be this rich someday, to throw his money around on bass reliefs and carved, wooden staircases. Even the rugs were impressive, patterns from nature intertwined with jewels embedded in the fabric. It looked as if no one had stepped on them, as if they had just been spread down by the very weaver who had made them.

Dantalion titled his head toward him. "Now, what exactly do you plan to do here, William?"

"To find out how Sytry is, of course. To find out why Baalberith won't reelect him," William relaxed in his chair. "And to convince him to come back to the human world. Sytry, I mean."

Dantalion shut his eyes. "I want to get to the bottom of this too, to find out why Baalberith even renounced him in the first place, but..." He concentrated, trying to form a coherent thought. "But this place is really dangerous. If Camio weren't here, I probably wouldn't have agreed to take you." _Not that I'm giving Camio all the credit..._

The other demon had, meanwhile, been distantly thinking something over.

"Spit it out," Dantalion said to him.

Camio shot him an irritated look but nevertheless answered, "I also want to know why he elected Eligos. What was the point of dismissing her before the battle with Lady Astaroth? What did he hope to gain from that?"

They all sat there, in their plush, comfortable armchairs, puzzled.

A headache was just starting to form at the back of William's mind from all the thinking when Gilles de Rais reappeared.

"My master will see you now," he said, a thin line formed on his indifferent lips.

"And I also want to know," William stood up, "What's wrong with you?" He looked straight at the demon in front of him.

"Me?" Gilles pointed to himself.

"Yes, you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he sighed.

"You're always acting so... flamboyant and loud. It's just-_this_-it's not like you." _All these demons actually_, WIlliam thought. _They've all been acting very weird recently. _

"Well, I'm sorry I can't be amusing and fascinating all the time," he struck a pose, slightly less than enthused than what he normally would have struck. "A lot has been on my mind lately. But anyway, we're wasting time talking out here and my master doesn't like to be kept waiting."

They walked through the halls, into dark corridors and shining ones. The juxtaposition was rather dizzying for William.

"Do you know why?" William started, his curiosity getting the best of him suddenly. "Why Baalberith handed over the nephilim so easily. Aren't you a nephilim too?"

Gilles shot him back an annoyed look. "I don't know. Perhaps it wasn't the right time."

"Time? Time for what?" Dantalion asked, but they had already stopped in front of a pair of heavy looking doors.

"Forget I said anything," he mumbled as he pushed the doors open.

Gilles de Rais bowed on the threshold of the doorway and from what William could see beyond his figure was a great, empty hall, shadowy and bleak. He gulped. Not that he was afraid, he _had_ met the demon lord before, but the room was so distinct and different from the rest of the manor. He could feel something leaking out of it, a feeling of desperation and decay, hopelessness and despair. Something told him this was the sort of place that hope and sunlight went to die in. Was this the sort of place the duke received his guests in? If so, Dantalion's warnings seemed all of a sudden very appropriate. This guy was dangerous, and not just dangerous but...

"May I present to you, President Camio, Duke Dantalion and the Elector," Gilles de Rais spoke with perfect composure and stepped aside.

They were ushered in, William the last to cross over the threshold, a bit reluctantly at that.

"Welcome to my home, Your Eminences. And a special welcome to the Elector." A gravely voice resonated from deep within the chamber. William squinted his eyes, there was hardly any light to be found here, and noticed that at the end of the room a figure sat on a high-backed throne. "What reason do you honor me with a visit today?"

William stepped forward, "Where's Sytry?"

Now he could see better. Baalberith rested his cheek on his fist, his whole visage giving off a casual and dignified air.

"How impertinent," he chuckled. "Humans really have no idea how Hell operates, do they? But you _are_ the Elector, after all, so I shouldn't be too surprised."

Camio and Dantalion stepped in front of William, their hands out as if to shield him.

"If you would be so kind, my lord," Camio said, agitated. "Please answer the question."

Baalberith frowned. "And what does it matter to you? Aren't there more important things you should be doing, Lucifer's child?"

Camio gritted his teeth.

The demon duke's eyes left him and concentrated on Dantalion. "But you, I know why you're here, nephilim. The Elector is such a handful, isn't he? And so indecisive. Wouldn't things be much simpler if he didn't exist?"

Dantalion kept silent, but William noticed how his hands curled into fists, shaking slightly with consternation.

"Enough!" William called out. "Please, just tell us how Sytry is. As prefect of his dorm, I need to report on his condition to the school." He squeezed his lips, hoping that the explanation would make the demon answer the question. It wasn't exactly a lie, after all, just not actually the truth. Who said humans knew nothing of Hell?

"He's fine," Baalberith said flatly. The hall became very dark suddenly, and William felt something, a sensation of pain. He clutched at his side, as if instinctively, feeling the scar under the material of his shirt.

"What's wrong, Elector? Does the ambiance of my home not agree with you?"

William shook off the sensation. The hall once again returned to the way it had been before. "I'll be okay. But I'll have to verify Sytry's condition for administration. Tell me where he is."

Camio turned around, his face slightly more concerned than it usually was. "We have our answer. Why don't we leave? We can't overstay our welcome."

"No, I have to make sure..." It pulsed again, the lines of his scar. William squeezed his eyes shut, the pain intense, more tangible than it had been when he received it. _What's going on?_, he asked himself. _Why do I feel like the cut's been opened again? I thought it was healed._

"Stop playing games, Baalberith," Dantalion called somewhere to William's side. "Just let us see Sytry and we'll leave."

A humorless laugh sounded from the far end of the room. "The Elector's impertinence really is infectious, isn't it? It's a shame that high-born and powerful demons such as yourselves have to submit to such a human."

This time Dantalion stepped forward, his hands ready to call up flames. "Don't try to start anything, Baalberith. If you're trying to turn us against William, it won't work. Now, I'll ask you again. Where is Sytry?"

Baalberith's face changed to an expression that seemed less engrossed, more calculating.

"How about we make a deal, Elector? Duke Dantalion seems so eager for a fight, why don't we give him one?"

William eyed him cautiously. "So you want to fight Dantalion?"

Baalberith leaned back into the chair. "Ah, unfortunately I wouldn't be an interesting opponent for him." He opened his jacket, revealing the wrappings that surrounded his chest. "I believe you've met Eligos before, Elector. You can thank her for this." William looked at the bandages, thankful that Dantalion, Camio and Sytry had been there to save him that time by the river.

"Then what is it?" He asked.

"Just a fight with a subordinate of mine. If Duke Dantlalion wins, you can see my nephew. If he loses, however..." Baalberith narrowed his eyes and smiled, the hairs on his face making the grin seem wider, bigger. "_You_ will have to stay here. With me."

William flinched. Just the thought of this place... it didn't seem like even Sytry liked living here. "Dantalion won't lose."

The aforementioned demon swung around. "Be careful William, you don't know what he's capable of."

"Don't underestimate me, Dantalion," William said. He tried to ignore it, but he was still vexed that they hadn't talked out it, that there was no semblance of the emotion from that night in the infirmary. Granted, this wasn't the right time to be thinking about such things, but... William just needed to know what _that_ was. What did Dantalion feel? Was it the same as what he felt? These emotions floating to the surface like bubbles when water reached a boiling point. William was at some kind of boiling point as well. "I know what I'm dealing with," he whispered, low and hushed.

Dantalion nodded.

"I accept, Baalberith," William said. "On one condition."

"And what's that?"

"Sytry will return with us to the school and you'll reelect him."

"Those are two conditions, William," Dantalion whispered beside him. William spared him a glance that read _be quiet_.

Baalberith took a moment to respond. "That would depend on the nature of the fight, wouldn't it?"

"What's that supposed to me?"

Baalberith's laughs rattled in his throat. "It would depend on how well Duke Dantalion fights. In other words," he small grin appeared on his face. "He'll have to make this an interesting fight."

"Fine," William said.

The smile grew wider. "Very well, Elector. I accept your conditions. And I was just growing nostalgic from that little skirmish a week ago." He snapped his fingers. The roof of the room faded away, unveiling a night sky. William shook his head, blinking. It hadn't been night when he had entered the castle and it was too early for the sky to be such a deep color besides that. Did Hell truly defy all laws and physics? William couldn't believe that. There had to be some explanation for it.

"Why don't you take a seat by me, Elector? You won't be able to enjoy the fight from there."

There were chairs by Baalberith, almost as ornate as the throne, now that William noticed.

"It would be wise to accept his invitation," Camio whispered to him. He nodded, giving once last glance to Dantalion and making for one of the chairs. Camio was close at his side, preferring to stand beside him. From here, he could see the full panorama of the night sky. A crimson, crescent moon hung in it, giving off a dull red light that permeated the clouds and stars. If those _were_ stars and not red eyes from a million ungodly creatures. William shivered at the rush of cool air that spread into the room.

But there was another advantage to this vantage point. He was close to Baalberith.

"Shall we start, Elector?" The demon turned to him.

"Yes," William nodded, his eyes trained on the sky.

"Come out here," Baalberith said. It was the first time William had heard Baalberith sound irritated.

Something stomped behind him and he turned around. It was a shadowy shape with an enormous build. William thought he would have to get up and flee, but Camio was close by, holding a hand on his shoulder. His grip became tighter as the creature got closer and William looked up, to gauge the half-demon's expression. It was as if Camio were looking at a ghost.

Dantalion, meanwhile, on the other side of the room, narrowed his eyes. Just what was Baalberith planning? Why the games? Why the deal making? It seemed bizarre, unnecessary. He kept his eyes focused on the dark spot, ready to make for it in a split second if it happened to attack William.

Its steps became louder, closer. Just a few more and it would be in view. Just a few more and...

The beast came out, it's massive jaw penetrating from the darkness.

Dantalion gasped. It was the monster. The monster that had almost taken William's life. He didn't know why it was here, how it had survived after Camio, but for some reason... he wouldn't let it harm William again!

"Fight Duke Dantalion," he heard Baalberith say.

The creature shot up into the sky, a mass of light forming in its gigantic claws.

Dantalion followed it. He didn't care how it got here, why it was here. All that mattered was that he destroy it. He sent blazing, red flames toward it, intent on hitting it from all sides. Suddenly, he remembered how it had nullified his attacks and cursed himself for the miscalculation. The creature dodged a few flames, but one hit its right arm and it clutched at the area, as if in pain.

So magic did work this time, Dantalion smirked. He unleashed more flames, feeling the heat intensify around him. The creature, meanwhile, was preparing to launch its magic, the pulsating light in its hand rippling with power. Dantalion wouldn't let it get him. He created a whip of fire and caught the creature's hand with it. The mass of light disappeared and the creature howled, grabbing at the fire as if to release itself from it.

Dantalion smirked. "Not so powerful this time around, are you?" He snapped at the flaming whip, sending the creature flying downwards. It hit the ground of Baalberith's throne room, the force of it breaking the tiles and leaving a sizeable crater in the floor. William leaned back in astonishment, some of the fragments from the tiles flying just within a finger's distance from his toes.

"Are you alright?" Camio asked him.

"I-I'm fine," William stammered, his heart beating uncontrollably in his chest.

"Is that all?" Baalberith said, and William turned his head in the direction of the words. But the demon lord was not looking at him, instead his eyes were focused on the great beast buried in the floor. "Are you so worthless that you can't even face Duke Dantalion now?"

The creature shook itself out from the floor and sprung up into the sky again. William watched as it dodged Dantalion's attacks with precision that seemed too exact for its large form.

"How can you treat it that way?" William asked.

Baalberith looked at him, his expression unreadable. "That creature is a mere pawn to me, Elector."

William chewed the bottom of his lip. "Won't it fight back eventually?"

"You have much to learn about the demon world, Elector," Baalberith said. "Everything about that creature belongs to me."

"It's William," he said.

"Oh?"

"William Twining," he said, pride swelling from somewhere at the mention of his name.

Baalberith grinned. "You amuse me, _Elector_. I'm beginning to understand why my nephew is so fond of you and the human world."

Something cracked and their heads shot up. Fire and light collided, making magnificent blasts in the sky. William shielded his eyes for a moment and then looked back. Dantalion sent another round of flames toward the creature and it fought back with streams of bright, shining light. William frowned. There was something bothering him again. Something he was forgetting. Something important. The scar on his side started to burn again.

"Your favorite candidate certainly knows how to fight, doesn't he?" Baalberith observed.

"H-he's not my favorite," William tried to make himself sound convincing and somehow felt that he was failing. Utterly.

"Are you jealous, Camio? Even I was surprised by how long Lord Beelzebuth took to announce your candidacy."

"Speaking of Lord Beelzebuth," Camio began. "Why did you elect Eligos so suddenly? What was the point?"

"So my actions even confused Our Majesty's son," Baalberith chuckled. "Very well, I'll tell you. Eligos was just a ploy to have my nephew return to me."

"And the war with Astaroth? Was that a ploy as well?"

"You're sharper than I expected, Elector."

They both gasped in unison. Now William saw it. The true reason why Baalberith was dangerous. It wasn't his magic or his minions. It was his ability to manipulate that truly horrified him. It was Baalberith who created Sytry's destiny, who forced his hand, who drove him to a future only he could see. Sytry chose to join Astaroth, he chose to leave William, but those choices had never been his own. Baalberith had orchestrated them, had thrown all the pieces on the board and watched as they worked themselves into place.

"So even that time at the church," William said.

Baalberith's look was all he needed for an answer.

William thought he would be sick.

"And what about the nephilim?" he asked.

"Ah," Baalberith returned his attention to the sky. "Now that's a slightly different matter."

Above, Dantalion was trying to catch his breath. The creature was on the offensive now, coming at him with its teeth and claws. He sent fire balls hurtling in its direction, but it seemed quicker now, more able to dodge his attacks. He set up shields just as it launched a beam of its magic, the light deflecting off his shield and blinding him for a moment. Then it was on him again, all sharp points and madness.

_This is no good_, he thought. _At this rate, I'll wear myself out before it does_.

He tried to think of a plan, a way to finish this quicker. He looked around, being careful to call up his shields whenever the creature sent another batch of its power his way.

That's when he saw it: a spire pointing out from the castle. He enveloped himself in fire, spreading pillars of the flame all around. It bewildered the creature, light trying in vain to differentiate the empty flames from the ones that held Dantalion. The creature hit whirling inferno after inferno and finally narrowed it down to just one. With a big stream of power, it hit the column of flames. It burst, sending flame and light in all directions. But... Dantalion wasn't there.

"I'm too smart for you, after all," Dantalion called from the top of a spire. His distraction had worked-he had escaped behind the spire while the creature was preoccupied eliminating the fires. Now, he held a great mass of flames in his hand. "This is for William," he said as he let it go. Once again the creature fell hurtling to the ground, crying in agony, its body in flames.

The crater in Baalberith's throne room became bigger as the creature hit the ground, the blast echoing throughout the castle and rattling William's bones. Once more, he thought he should move away, but again, Camio's hand was on his shoulder.

"No, stay," he urged.

Dantalion hovered down, stepping on the ground lightly. He was out of breath, but other than that he remained unscathed.

"You call that a fight?" He said cockily.

"Oh, are you done?" Baalberith said. "You know what will happen if you stop now." The creature rattled in the pit it had made, its cries grating on William's ears.

"No, that's enough. Dantalion won. Let us see Sytry now."

Baalberith shook his head. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Elector. About a lot of things."

The creature rose from the pit, its height enormous.

Baalberith turned to William. "Let's make this more interesting, shall we?" He snapped his fingers. All at once, the creature disappeared. William blinked, his eyes, unable to see it. There was thin outline of where it had stood and in that outline something moved. A shape, formless and fluid. He thought he recognized it. The scar on his side burned.

Dantalion stared wide-eyed at what was before him. It was the _thing_. The _thing_ that had hurt William. It looked at him eyeliss, its shadow like tendrils ready to fight him. _Why were those creatures here?, _Dantalion wondered_._ _Had Baalberith...?_ Of course he had.

"It was you!" Dantlaion pointed at Baalberith. "It was you who sent all those demons after us!"

William looked at the demon duke, as if to read a sign of incredulity. He found none.

"It was me," Baalberith shut his eyes, as if he were trying to be modest about the admission. "Although it was merely a distraction and nothing more."

"How dare you!" Dantalion felt something crack inside of him. Something black seeped out, something turned his blood to pitch. "William almost... you... you bastard!" Everything was turning red, the hall, the shadow creature, Baalberith. He felt the flames start to engulf him, felt their familiar presence wrap around him, adulterate him.

"No, Dantalion. Don't," William called. Camio had grabbed his arm.

"Now, it's time to go," Camio said. Before William could say another word, they were off, into the night sky.

"Yes, let your rage grow, Dantalion," he heard Baalberith say.

"Dantalion!" William called.

The demon heard his name and let the power go. It swallowed the shadow creature, its shrill screams filling Dantalion with delight. Baalberith sat cooly in his chair, his eyes impassive, focused on the burning. Finally, the flames receded, the shadow huddled in a dark mass. Dantalion was almost sure he had killed it, but it rose again, sending a beam of light right for him in a desperate attempt. He dodged it easily. It started to form another blast but he rushed toward it, sending fire to its tendril. The shadow once again shrieked, in that odd, mouthless way.

"You," he said to it. "I'll make you suffer." He grabbed onto the shadow and found it surprisingly tangible. He started to rip at it and shreds of something came off. Cloth? He didn't think about, continuing to tear at the shadow.

Camio brought William back down.

"It's over, Baalberith," he said, his voice low.

Baalberith grinned, still observing the scene. "Even _I_ wasn't so cruel."

"Take us to where Sytry is," he commanded. He was sure he was commanding, and yet Baalberith stayed seated.

"Do you even know anything about my nephew, Elector?"

William stepped back. Lamia's words played in his head: _No, Sytry is different..._

"Ah, I see. You don't."

He rose his hand, but William started up. "Yes, I do know him. He's an entitled underclassman with a penchant for sweets and he's constantly showing me up in popularity contests."

Baalberith gave him an unreadable expression. "Actually, he's my-"

A scream broke him off. Dantalion continued to strangle the shadow, it's agonizing cries invading William's ears again. He held on to his side, feeling the inflammation grow.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light. When William looked, the shadow was no longer underneath Dantalion but making its way towards him.

"Don't you dare!" Dantlion called out, sending sparks to its back. The shadow wailed but continued its stride.

Something called to William then. Something mysterious and unscientific. It felt like something was tearing at his side, sending hot, searing impulses throughout his body. "William!" he heard Dantalion scream, but he couldn't move. The shadow came closer, its light almost blinding him.

A shadowy appendage ghosted across his face. He wondered why it felt so warm, so real and familiar.

_You shouldn't have come._.. he heard something say, and realized it was the shadow. Its voice was like the wind, insubstantial but strong. _ I can't protect you if you..._

Another flame hit it and it screamed.

"Now Camio!" Dantalion yelled.

Camio was in front of William in another second, blocking him from the shadow. It shot up, above the two demons, suspended in the air with an ethereal sense of gravity.

Camio and Dantalion followed.

William turned to Baalberith.

"What is that thing?"

The grin stayed plastered on his face.

Flames and lightning intertwined around the creature as it tried to shield itself.

"Die!" Dantalion hissed, his flames becoming a spiraling funnel from which nothing could escape.

Camio's lightning hit it from the other side, crackling on the tongues of lapping fire. The shadow howled in that odd, airy voice, its shield finally breaking down from the force of the other two.

"Is that all you've got?" Baalberith's voice roared from below.

The shadow, in a desperate attempt, spun fragments of light around itself, covering itself from the attacks. The flames and lightning stopped as Dantalion and Camio covered their eyes from the brightness. William too, had to shield his eyes. _That light_... he thought. His scar burned intensely at that moment and his vision darkened.

Dantalion and Camio prepared their final attacks to break the creature out of its shield. Flames and lightning surged in their hands.

_No..._

It felt like something was ripping open, something pouring out. He felt his side, the burning rippling throughout his body.

_No, I have to..._

His eyes opened wide as Camio and Dantalion let go of the magic, the force of it breaking apart the light.

_No!_

The shadow fell to the ground, its limp body making a sickening crack as it hit the floor.

William fell to his knees. What was going on? Why did it hurt all of a sudden, not just the scar but his heart... why did it hurt? All he could think of, strangely, was plants.

Dantalion and Camio levitated in the air, sparks and flames suspended in their open palms. They looked at the shadow, a pool of darkness immobile on the ground.

"Do you think it's dead?" Dantalion asked.

"One more hit should kill it, regardless," Camio said, his voice cool and calculated.

"It almost killed William," Dantalion said. "We can't take any chances." The ball of fire grew to a swirling, scorching mass, a sun swelling in its death throes. He would make it feel agony beyond any creature in Hell. He would let it know, let them all know, what happened when anyone threatened William. His eyes gleamed red.

The shadow lay helpless on the floor. Yes, this blast would probably kill it; it was just at the tip of Dantalion's finger, ready to be launched, when he saw a figure running to the middle of the floor.

William was beside it in a heartbeat.

"No! Stop it!"

The lightning and fire completely dissolved in the demons' hands. The force holding them in the air dissapeared and they fell to the ground rapidly, their powers sealed.

"No, William! Don't go near it!" Dantalion screamed, the pain from the fall having knocked all but the breath out of him.

William came up the creature and held it in his arms.

"Enough of the illusions, Baalberith!" He screamed back.

Baalberith showed no emotion. He waved his hand and the shadows in William's arms started to disappear.

Camio and Dantalion stared in shock.

Sytry lay in William's arms as the shadows dissolved.


End file.
